
Class 
Book 



__J^A 

\%1A 




^s^i^^^^^I^ 



AURORA LEIGH, 



AND OTHER POEMS. 



BY 



Barrett B 



ELIZABETH OARRETT DROWNING 



FROM THE LAST LONDON EDITION, 



OORRECTED BY THE AUTHOR 



New York : 

JAMES MILLER, PUBLISHED, 

647 Broadway. 

1874. 






The right of publishing this book in the United States hav- 
ing been liberally purchased by Mr. James Miller, // is hoped 
that there will be no interference with the same. 

Robert Browning. 

London, February 20, 1862. 



By Bxchap.|a:e: 

Army and N.; ,^^y q\^ 
Mav S7 1929 



Anderson b' Ramsay, Printers, 28 Frankfort Street, Kezv York. 



i. 



i DEDICATIOlSr. 

t _______ 

TO MY FATHER, 

When your eyes fall upon this page of dedication, and you start to see to 
whom it is inscribed, your first thought will be of the time far off when I was a 
child and wrote verses, and when I dedicated them to you, who were my public 
and my critic. Of all that such a recollection implies of saddest and sweetest to 
both of us, it would become neither of us to speak before the world : nor would it 
be possible for us to speak of it to one another, with voices that did not falter. 
Enough, that what is in my heart when I write thus, will be fully known to yours. 

And my desire is that j'ou, who are a witness how if this art of poetry had 
been a less earnest object to me, it must have fallen from exhausted hands before 
this day,- -that ^'oic, who have shared with me in things bitter and sweet, softening 
or enhancing them every day — that ^'au, who hold with me over all sense of loss 
and transiency, one hope by one Name, — may accept the inscription of these 
volumes, the exponents of a few years of an existence which has been sustained 
and comforted by you as well as given. Somewhat more faint-hearted than I 
used to be, it is my fancy thus to seem to return to a visible personal dependence 
on you, as if indeed I were a child again ; to conjure your beloved image be- 
tween myself and the public, so as to be sure of one smile, — and to satisfy my 
heart while I sanctify my ambition, by associating with the great pursuit of my 
life, its tenderest and holiest affection. 

Your 

E. B. B. 



CONTENTS. 



Aurora Leigh 7 

Prometheus Bound i8i 

A Lament for Adonis 201 

Bertha in the Lane 203 

That Day 206 

Life and Love. , 206 

The Runaway Slave 206 

A Child's Grave at Florence 210 

Lady Geraldine's Courtship 213 

Lord Walter's Wife 223 

Sonnets from the Portuguese 225 

Fourfold Aspect » 250 



AURORA LEIGH. 



FIRST BOOK. 

Of writing many books there is no end ; 
And I have written much in prose and 

verse 
For others' uses, will write now for 

mine, — 
Will write my story for my better self, 
As when you paint your portrait for a 

friend. 
Who keeps it in a drawer and looks at it 
Long after he has ceased to love you, 

just 
To hold together what he was and is. 

I, writing thus, am still what men call 

young ; 
I have not so far left the coasts of life 
To travel inland, that I cannot hear 
That murmur of the outer Infinite 
Which unweaned babies smile at in their 

sleep 
When wondered at for smiling ; not so 

far, 
But still I catch my mother at her post 
Beside the nursery-door, with finger up, 
' Hush, hush — here's too much noise ! ' 

while her sweet eyes 
Leap forward, taking part against her 

word 
In the child's riot. Still I sit and feel 
My father's slow hand, when she had 

left us both. 
Stroke out my childish curls across h.is 

knee ; 
And hear Assunta's daily jest (she knew 
He liked it better than a better jest) 
Inquire how many golden scudi went 
To make such ringlets. O my father's 

hand, 
Stroke heavily, heavily the poor hair 

down, 
Draw, press the child's head closer to thy 

knee ! 
I'm still too young, too young, to sit 

alone. 



I write. My mother was a Florentine, 
Whose rare blue eyes were shut from 

seeing me 
When scarcely I was four years old ; my 

life 
A poor spark snatched up from a failing 

lamp 
V/hich went out therefore. She was 

weak and frail ; 
She could not bear the joy of giving 

life— 
The mother's rapture slew her. If her 

kiss 
Had left a longer weight upon my lips, 
It might have steadied the uneasy breath, 
And reconciled and fraternised my soul 
With the new order. As it was, indeed, 
I felt a mother-want about the world. 
And still went seeking, like a bleatingj 

lamb 
Left out at night in shutting up the 

fold. — 
As restless as a nest-deserted bird 
Grown chill through something being 

away, though what 
It knows not. I, Aurora Leigh, was 

born 
To make my father sadder, and myself 
Not overjoyous, truly. Women know 
Tlie way to rear up children, (to be just,) 
They know a simple, merry, tender 

knack 
Of tying sashes, fitting baby-shoes, 
And stringing pretty words that make 

no sense, 
And kissing full sense into empty words ; 
Which things are corals to cut life upon, 
Although such trifles : children learn by 

such, 
Love's holy earnest in a pretty play, 
And get not over-early solemnised, 
But seeing, as in a rose-bush, Love's 

Divine, 
Which burns and hurts not,— not a sin- 
gle bloom,— T 



AUJ^OI^A LEIGH. 



Become aware and unafraid of Love. 
Such good do mothers. Fathers love as 

well 
— Mine did, I know, — but still with 

heavier brains, 
And wills more consciously responsible, 
And not as wisely, since less foolishly ; 
So mothers have God's license to be 

missed . 

My father was an austere Englishman, 
Who, after a dry life-time spent at home 
In college-learnmg, law, and parish talk, 
Was flooded with a passion unaware. 
His whole provisioned and complacent 

past 
Drowned out from him that moment. 

As he stood 
In Florence, where he had come to 

spend a month 
And note the secret of Da Vinci's 

drains. 
He musing somewhat absently perhaps 
Some English question . . whether men 

should pay 
The unpopular but necessary tax 
With left or right hand — in the alien 

sun 
In that great square of the Santissima, 
There drifted past him (scarcely marked 

enough 
To move his comfortable island-scorn,) 
A train of priestly banners, cross and 

psalm. 
The white-veiled rose-crowned maidens 

holding up 
Tall tapers, weighty for such wrists, 

aslant 
To the blue luminous tremor of the air, 
And letting drop the white wax as they 

went 
To eat the bishop's wafer at the church ; 
From which long trail of chanting priests 

and girls 
A face flashed like a cymbal on his face, 
And shook with silent clangour brain 

and heart, 
Transfiguring him to music. Thus, even 

thus. 
He too received his sacramental gift 
With eucharistic meanings ; lor he 

loved. 

And thus beloved, she died. I've heard 
it said 



That but to see him in the first surprise 
Of widower and father, nursing me, 
Unmothered little child of four years 

old. 
His large man's hands afraid to touch 

my curls. 
As if the gold would tarnish, — his grave 

lips 
Contriving such a miserable smile, 
As if he knew needs must, or I should 

die. 
And yet 'twas hard, — would almost make 

the stones 
Cry out for pity. There's a verse he set 
In Santa Croce to her memory, 
* Weep for an infant too young to weep 

much 
When death removed this mother ' — 

stops the mirth 
To-day on women's faces when they 

walk 
With rosy children hanging on their 

gowns. 
Under the cloister to escape the sun 
That scorches in the piazza. After 

which 
He left our Florence and made haste to 

hide 
Himself, his prattling child, and silent 

grief, 
Among the mountains above Pelago ; 
Because unmothered babes, he thought, 

had need 
Of mother nature more than others use. 
And Pan's white goats, with udders 

warm and full 
Of mystic contemplations, come to feed 
Poor milkless lips of orphans like his 

own — 
Such scholar-scraps he talked, I've lieard 

from friends, 
For even prosaic men, who wear grief 

long, 
Will get to wear it as a hat aside 
With a flower stuck in't. Father, then, 

and child. 
We lived among the mountains many 

years, 
God's silence on the outside of the house, 
And we, who did not speak too loud 

within ; 
And old Assunta to make up the fire. 
Crossing herself whene'er a sudden flame 
Which lightened from the firewood, made 

alive 



AURORA LEIGH. 



That picture of my mother on the wall. 
The painter drew it after she was dead ; 
And when the face was finished, throat 

and hands, 
Her cameriera carried him, in hate 
Of the English-fashioned shroud, the 

last brocade 
She dressed in at the Pitti. ' He should 

paint 
No sadder thing than that,' she swore, 

' to wrong 
Her poor signora.' Therefore very- 
strange 
The effect was. I, a little child, would 

crouch 
For hours upon the floor with knees 

drawn up, 
And gaze across them, half in terror, 

half _ 
In adoration, at the picture there, — 
That swan-like supernatural white life. 
Just sailing upward from the red stiff 

silk 
Which seemed to have no part in it, nor 

power 
To keep it from quite breaking out of 

bounds : 
For hours I sate and stared. Assunta's 

awe 
And my poor father's melancholy eyes 
Still pointed that way. That way, went 

my thoughts 
When wandering beyond sight. And as 

I grew 
In years, I mixed, confused, uncon- 
sciously, 
Whatever I last read or heard or dreamed 
Abhorrent, admirable, beautiful, 
Pathetical, or ghastly, or grotesque. 
With still that face . . . which did not 

therefore change, 
But kept the mystic level of all forms 
And fears and admirations, was by turns 
Ghost, fiend, and angel, fairy, witch, and 

sprite, 
A dauntless Muse who eyes a dreadful 

Fate, 
A loving Psyche who loses sight of Love, 
A still Medusa, with mild milky brows 
All curdled and all clothed upon with 

snakes 
Whose slime falls fast as sweat will ; or, 

anon. 
Our Lady of the Passion, stabbed with 

swords 



Where the Babe sucked ; or, Lamia in 
her first 

Moonlighted pallor, ere she shrunk and 
blinked, 

And, shuddering, wriggled down to the 
unclean ; 

Or, my own mother, leaving her last 
smile 

In her last kiss, upon the baby-mouth 

My father pushed down on the bed for 
that,— 

Or my dead mother, without smile or 
kiss. 

Buried at Florence. All which images. 

Concentred on the picture, glassed them- 
selves 

Before my meditative childhood, . . as 

The incoherencies of change and death 

Are represented fully, mixed and merg- 
ed. 

In the smooth fair mystery of perpetual 
Life. 

And while I stared away my childish 
wits 

Upon my mother's picture, (ah, poor 
child ! ) 

My father, who through love had sud- 
denly 

Thrown oft the old conventions, broken 
loose 

From chin-bands of the soul, like Laza- 
rus, 

Yet had no time to learn to talk and 
walk 

Or grow anew familiar with the sun, — 

Who had reached to freedom, not to 
action, lived, 

But lived as one entranced, with 
thoughts, not aims, — 

Whom love had unmade from a common 
man 

But not completed to an uncommon 
man, — 

My father taught me what he had learnt 
the best 

Before he died and left me, — grief and 
love. 

And, seeing we had books among the 
hills. 

Strong words of counselling souls con- 
federate 

With vocal pines and waters, — out of 
books 

He taught me all the ignorance of men. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And how Gcxl laughs in heaven when 
any man 

Says ' Here I'm learned; this, I under- 
stand ; 

In that. I am never caught at fault or 
doubt.' 

He sent the schools to school, demon- 
strating 

A fool will pass for such through one 
mistake, 

While a philosopher will pass for such. 

Through said mistakes being ventured 
in the gross 

And heaped up to a system. 

I am like, 

They tell me, my dear father. Broader 
brows 

Howbeit, upon a slenderer undergrowth 

Of delicate features, — paler, near as 
grave ; 

But then my mother's smile breaks up 
the whole, 

And makes it better sometimes than 
itself. 

So, nine full years, our days were hid 

with God 
Among his mountains. I was just thir- 
teen, 
Still growing like the plants from unseen 

roots 
In tongue-tied Springs, — and suddenly 

awoke 
To full life and life's needs and agonies. 
With an intense, strong, struggling 

heart beside 
A stone-dead father. Life, struck sharp 

on death. 
Makes awful lightning. His last word 

was, ' Love—' 
* Love, my child, love,love ! '—(then he 

had done with grief) 
'Love, my child.' Ere I answered he 

was gone, 
And none was left to love in all the 

world. 

There, ended childhood : what suc- 
ceeded next 
I recollect as, after fevers, men 
Thread back the passage of delirium, 
Missing the turn still, baffled by the 

door ; 
Smooth endless days, notched here and 
there with knives ; 



A wearv, wormy darkness, spurred 5' 

the flank 
With flame, that it should eat and end 

itself 
Like some tormented scorpion. Then, 

at last, 
I do remember clearly, how there came 
A stranger with authority, not right, 
(I thought not) who commanded, caught 

me up 
From old Assunta's neck ; how, with a 

shriek. 
She let me go, — while I, with ears too 

full 
Of my father's siience, to shriek back a 

word, 
In all a child's astonishment at grief 
Stared at the wharf-edge where sh.c 

stood and moaned. 
My poor Assunta, where she stood and 

moaned ! 
The white walls, the blue hills, my Italy, 
Drawn backward from the shuddering 

steamer-deck, 
Like one in anger drawing back her 

skirts 
Which suppliants catch at. Then tlie 

bitter sea 
Inexorably pushed between us both, 
And sweeping up the ship with my de- 
spair 
Threw us out as a pasture to the stars. 

Ten nights and days we voyaged on the 

deep ; 
Ten nights and days without the com- 

jnon face 
Of any day or night ; the moon and sun 
Cut off from the green reconciling earth. 
To starve. into a blind ferocity 
And glare unnatural ; the very sky 
(Dropping its bell-net down upon the sea 
As if no human heart should 'scape 

alive,) 
Bedraggled with the desolating salt, 
LTiitil it seemed no more that holy heaven 
To which my father went. All new, and 

strange— 
The universe turned stranger, for a child. 

Then, land !— then, England ! oh, the 

frosty cliffs 
Looked cold upon me. Could I find a 

home 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Among those mean red houses through 

the fog? 
And when I heard my father's language 

first 
From alien lips whicli had no kiss for 

mine, 
I wept aloud, then laughed, then wept, 

then wept. 
And some one near me said the child was 

mad 
Through much sea-sickness. The train 

swept us on. 
Was this my father's England? the great 

isle? 
The groimd seemed cut up from the fel- 
lowship 
Of verdure, field from field, as man from 

man ; 
The skies themselves looked low and 

positive. 
As almost you could touch them with a 

hand. 
And dared to do it they were so far off 
From God's celestial crystals ; all things 

blurred 
And dull and vague. Did Shakespeare 

and his mates 
Absorb the light here? — not a hill or 

stone 
With heart to strike a radiant colour up 
Or active outline on the indifferent air ! 

I think I see my father's sister stand 
Upon the hall-step of her country-house 
To give me welcome. She stood straight 

and calm, 
Her somewhat narrow forehead braided 

tight 
As if for taming accidental thoughts 
From possible pulses ; brown hair prick- 
ed with gray 
By frigid use of life, (she was not old 
Although my father's elder by a year) 
A nose drawn sharply, yet in delicate 

lines ; 
A close mild mouth, a little soured about 
The ends, through speaking unrequited 

loves, 
Or peradventure niggardly half-truths ; 
Eyes of no color, — once they might have 

smiled, 
But never, never have forgot themselves 
In smiling; cheeks in which was yet a 

rose [book. 

Of perished summers, like a rose in a 



Kept mot'ft for ruth than pleasure,— if 

past bloom, 
Past fading also. 

She had lived, we'll say, 

A harmless life, she called a virtuous hfe, 

A quiet life, which was not life at all, 

(But that, she had not lived enough to 
know) 

Between the vicar and the county squires. 

The lord-lieutenant looking down some- 
times 

From the empyrean to assure their souls 

Against chance vulgarisms, and, in the 
abyss, 

The apothecary looked on once a year. 

To prove their soundness of humility. 

The poor-club exercised her Christian 
gifts 

Of knitting stockings, stitching petti- 
coats. 

Because we are of one flesh after all 

And need one flannel, (with a proper 
sense 

Of difference in the quality) — and still 

The book-club, guarded from your mod- 
ern trick 

Of shaking dangerous questions from 
the crease. 

Preserved her intellectual. She had 
lived 

A sort of cage-bird life, born in a cage. 

Accounting that to leap from perch to 
perch 

Was act and joy enough for any bird. 

Dear heaven, how silly are the things 
that live 

In thickets, and eat berries ! 

I, alas, 

A wild bird scarcely fledged, was brought 
to her cage. 

And she was there to meet me. Very 
kind. 

Bring the clean water ; give out the fresh 
seed. 

She stood upon the steps to welcome 

me, 
Calm, in black garb. I clung about her 

reck, — 
Young babes, who catch at every shred 

of wool 
To draw the new light closer, catch and 

cling 
Less blindly. In my ears, my father's 

word 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Hummed ignorantly, as the sea in shells, 

• Love, love, my child.' She, black 

there with my grief, . 
Might feel my love— she was his sister 

once— 
I clung to her. A moment she seemed 

moved, 
Kissed me with cold lips, suffered me to 

cling, 
And drew me feebly through the hall into 
The room she sate in. 

There, with some strange spasm 
Of pain and passion, she wrung loose 

my hands 
Imperiously, and held me at arm's 

length, 
And with two gray-steel naked-bladed 

eyes 
Searched through my face,— ay, stabbed 

it through and through. 
Through brows and cheeks and chin, as 

if to find 
A wicked murderer in my innocent face. 
If not here, there perhaps. Then, 

drawing breath, . 
She struggled for her ordinary calm, 
And missed it rather,— told me not to 

shrink, 
As if she had told me not to lie or 

swear, 

• She loved my father and would love me 

too 
As long as I deserved it.' Very kind. 

I understood her meaning afterward ; 
She thought to find my mother in my 

face. 
And questioned it for that. For she, 

my aunt, 
Had loved my father truly, as she 

could. 
And hated, with the gall of gentle souls, 
My Tuscan mother who had fooled 

away 
A wise man from wise courses, a good 

man 
From obvious duties, and, depriving her. 
His sister, of the household precedence. 
Had wronged his tenants, robbed his 

native land. 
And made him mad, alike by life and 

death, 
In love and sorrow. She had pored for 

years 
What sort of woman could be suitable 



To her sort of hate, to entertain it with ; 
And so, her very curiosity 
Became hate too, and all the idealism 
She ever used iu life, was used for hate, 
'J'ill hate, so nourished, did exceed at 

last 
The love from which it grew, in strength 

and heat, 
And wrinkled her smooth conscience 

with a sense 
Of disputable virtue (say not, sin) 
When Christian doctrine was enforced 

at church. 

And thus my father's sister was to me 
My mother's hater. From that day, she 

did 
Her duty to me, (I appreciate it 
In her own word as spoken to herself) 
Her duty, in large measure, well-pressed 

out. 
But measured always. She was gener- 

rous, bland, 
More courteous than was tender, gave 

me still 
The first place,— as if fearful that God's 

saints 
Would look down suddenly and say, 

' Herein 
You missed a point, I think, through 

lack of love.' 
Alas, a mother never is afraid 
Of speaking angerly to any child, 
Since love, she knows, is justified of love. 

And I, I was a good child on the whole, 
A meek and manageable child. Why 

not? 
I did not live, to have the faults of life : 
There seemed more true life in my fath- 
er's grave 
Than in all England. Since that threw 

me off 
Who fain would cleave, (his latest will, 

they say. 
Consigned me to his land) I only thought 
Of lying quiet there where I was thrown 
Like sea-weed on the jocks, and suffer- 
ing her 
To prick me to a pattern with her pin. 
Fibre from fibre, delicate leaf from leaf, 
And dry out from my drowned anatomy 
The last sea-salt left in me. 

So it was. 
I broke the copious curls upon my head 



AURORA LEIGH. 



"3 



In braids, because she liked smooth-or- 
dered hair. 
I left off saying my sweet Tuscan words 
Which still at any stirring of the heart 
Came up to float across the English 

phrase. 
As lilies, {Bene . . or c/ie che) because 
She liked my father's child to speak his 

tongue. 
I learnt the collects and the catechism, 
The creeds, from Athanasius back to 

Nice, 
The Articles . . the Tracts against the 

times, 
(By no means Buonaventure's ' Prick of 

Love,') 
And various popular synopses of 
Inhuman doctrines never taught by John, 
Because she liked instructed piety. 
I learnt my complement of classic French 
(Kept pure of Balzac and neologism,) 
And German also, since she liked a range 
Of liberal education, — tongues, not 

books. 
I learn*, a little algebra, a little 
Of the mathematics, — brushed with ex- 
treme flounce 
The circle of the sciences, because 
She misliked women who are frivolous. 
I learnt the royal genealogies 
Of Oviedo, the internal laws 
Of the Burmese empire, . . by how 

many feet 
Mount Chimborazo outsoars Teneriffe, 
What navigable river joins itself 
To Lara, and what census of the year 

five 
Was taken at Klagenfurt, — because she 

liked _ 
A general insight into useful facts. 
I learnt much music, — such as would 

have been 
As quite impossible in Johnson's day 
As still it might be wished — fine sleights 

of hand 
And unimagined fingering, shuffling off 
The hearer's soul through hurricanes of 

notes [tumes 

To a noisy Tophet ; and I drew . . cos- 
From French engravings, nereids neatly 
> draped. 
With smirks of simmering godship, — I 

washed in 
Landscapes from nature (rather say, 

washed out.) 



I danced the polka and Cellarius, 

Spun glass, stuffed birds, and modelled 

flowers in wax. 
Because she liked accomplishments in 

girls. 
I read a score of books on womanhood 
To prove, if women do not think at all, 
They may teach thinking, (to a maiden- 
aunt 
Or else the author)— books that boldly 

assert 
Their right of comprehending husband's 

talk 
When not too deep, and even of answer- 
ing 
With pretty ' may it please you,' or ' so 

it is,' — 
Their rapid insight and fine aptitude. 
Particular worth and general missionari- 

ness, 
As long as they keep quiet by the fire 
And never say ' no ' when the world say 

' ay,'^ 
For that is fatal, — their angelic reach 
Of virtue, chiefly used to sit and darn,_ 
And fatten household sinners, — their, in 

brief, 
Potential faculty in everything 
Of abdicating power in it : she owned 
She liked a woman to be womanly, 
And English women, she thanked God 

and sighed, 
(Some people always sigh in thanking 

God) 
Were models to the universe. And last 
I learnt cross-stitch, because she did not 

like 
To see me wear the night with empty 

hands, 
A-doing nothing. So, my shepherdess 
Was something after all, (the pastoral 

saints 
Be jiraised for't) leaning lovelorn with 

pink eyes 
To match her shoes, when I mistook the 

silks ; 
Her head uncrushed by that round weight 

of hat 
So strangely similar to the tortoise-shell 
Which slew the tragic poet. 

By the way, 
The works of women are symbolical. 
We sew, sew, prick our fingers, dull our 
sight. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Producing what? A pair of slippeVs, 

sir, 
To put on when j'ou're weary — or a 

stool 
To tumble over and vex you . . ' curse 

that stool ! ' 
Or else at best, a cushion, where you 

lean 
And sleep, and dream of something we 

are not. 
But would be for your sake. Alas, alas ! 
This hurts most, this . . that, after all, 

we are paid 
The worth of our work, perhaps. 

In looking down 
Those years of education, (to return) 
I wonder if Brinvilliers suffered more 
In the water torture, . . flood succeed- 
ing flood 
To drench the incapable throat and split 

the veins . . 
Than I did. Certain of your feebler 

souls 
Go out in such a process ; many pine 
To a sick, inodorous light ; my own en- 
dured : 
I had relations in the Unseen, and drew 
The elemental nutriment and heat 
From nature, as earth feels the sun at 

nights, 
Or as a babe sucks surely in the dark, 
I kept the life thrust on me, on the out- 
side 
Of the inner life with all its ample room 
For heart and lungs, for will and intel- 
lect. 
Inviolable by conventions. God, 
I thank thee for that grace of thine ! 

At first, 
I felt no life whicli was not patience, — 

did 
The thing she bade me, without heed to 

a thing 
Beyond it, sate in just the chair she 

placed. 
With back against the window, to ex- 
clude 
The sight of the great lime-tree on the 

lawn. 
Which seemed to have come on purpose 

from the woods 
To bring the house a message, — ay, and 

walked 
Demurely in her carpeted low rooms, 



As if I should not, harkenmg my own 

steps, 
Misdoubt I was alive. I read her books, 
Was civil to her cousin, Romney Leigh, 
Gave ear to her vicar, tea to her visitors, 
And heard them whisper, when I changed 

a cup, 
(I blushed for joy at that) — 'The Italian 

child, 
For all her blue eyes and her quiet ways. 
Thrives ill in England ; she is paler yet 
Than when we came the last time ; she 

will die.' 

' Will clie.' My cousin, Romney Leigh, 

blushed too, 
With sudden anger, and approaching 

me 
Said low between his teeth — ' You're 

wicked now! 
You wish to die and leave the world a- 

dusk 
For others, with j'our naughty liglit 

blown out ? ' 
I looked into his face defyingly. 
He might have known that, being wliat 

I was, 
'Twas natural to like to get away 
As far as dead folk can ; and then indeed 
Some people make no trouble when they 

die. 
He turned and went abruptly, slammed 

the door 
And shut his dog out. 

Romney, Romney Leigh. 
I have not named my cousin hitherto, 
And yet I used him as a sort of friend ; 
My elder by few years, but cold and shy 
And absent . . tender when he thought 

of it. 
Which scarcely was imperative, grave 

betimes, 
As well as early master of Leigh Hall, 
Whereof the nightmare state upon his 

youth 
Repressing all its seasonable delights, 
And agonising with a ghastly sense 
Of universal hideous want and wrong 
To incriminate possession. When he 

came 
From college to the country, very oft 
He crossed the hill on visits to my aunt, 
With gifts of blue grapes from the hot' 

houses, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



IS 



A book in one hand, — mere statisticsj (if 

I chanced to lift the cover) count of all 

The goats whose beards grow sprouting 
down toward hell, 

Against God's separative judgment- 
hour. 

And she, she almost loved him, — even 
allowed 

That sometimes he should seem to sigh 
my way ; 

It made him easier to be pitiful, 

And sighing was his gift. So, undis- 
turbed 

At whiles she let him shut my music up 

And push my needles down, and lead 
me out 

To see in that south angle of the house 

The figs grow black as if by a Tuscan 
rock. 

On some light pretext. She would turn 
her head 

At other moments, go to fetch a thing, 

And leave me breath enough to speak 
with him. 

For his sake ; it was simple. 

Sometimes too 

He would have saved me utterly, it 
seemed, 

He stood and looked so 

Once, he stood so near 

He dropped a sudden hand upon my 
head 

Bent down on woman's work, as soft as 
rain — 

But then I rose and shook it off as fire, 

The stranger's touch that took my 
father's place 

Yet dared seem soft. 

I used him for a friend 

Before T ever knew him for a friend. 

'Twas better, 'twas worse also, after- 
ward : 

We came so close, we saw our differences 

Too intimately. Always Romney Leigh 

Was looking for the worms, I for the 
gods. 

A godlike nature his; the gods look 
down, 

Incurious of themselves ; and certainly 

*Tis well I should remember, how, those 
days, 

I was a worm too, and he looked on inc. 

A little by his act perhaps, yet more 
By something in me, surely not my will, 



I did not die. But slowly, as one in 
swoon, 

To whom life creeps back in the form of 
death. 

With a sense of separation, a blind pain 

Of blank obstruction, and a roar i' the 
ears 

Of visionary chariots which retreat 

As earth grows clearer . . slowly, by de- 
grees, 

I woke, rose up . . where was I ? in the 
world ; 

For uses therefore I must count worth 
while. 

I had a little chamber in the house, 
As green as any privet-hedge a bird 
Might choose to build in, though the 

nest itself 
Could show but dead-brown sticks and 

straws ; the walls 
Were green, the carpet was pure green, 

the straight 
Small bed was curtained greenly, and 

the folds 
Hung green about the window, which 

let in 
The out-door world with all its greenery. 
You could not push your head out and 

escape 
A dash of dawn-dew from the honey- 
suckle, 
But so you were baptised into the grace 
And privilege of seeing. . . 

First, the lime, 
(I had enough, there, of the lime, be 

sure, — 
My morning-dream was often hummed 

away 
By the bees in it ;) past the lime, the 

lawn, 
Which, after sweeping broadly round 

the house. 
Went trickling through the shrubberies 

in a stream 
Of tender turf, and wore and lost itself 
Among the acacias, over which, you saw 
The irregular line of elms by the deep 

lane 
Which stopped the grounds and dammed 

the overflow 
Of arbutus and laurel. Out of sight 
The lane was ; sunk so deep, no foreign 

tramp 
Nor drover of wild ponies out of Wales 



i6 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Could guess if lady's hall or tenant's 
lodge 

Dispensed such odours, — though his 
stick well crooked 

Might reach the lowest trail of blossom- 
ing briar 

Which dipped upon the wall. Behind 
the elms, 

And through their tops, you saw the 
folded hills 

Striped up and down with hedges, (burly 
oaks 

Projecting from the line to show them- 
selves) 

Through which my cousin Romney's 
chimneys smoked 

As still as when a silent mouth in frost 

Breathes — showing where the woodlands 
hid Leigh Hall ; 

While, far above, a jut of table-land, 

A promontory without water, stretched, — 

You could not catch it if the days were 
thick, 

Or took it for a cloud ; but, otherwise 

The vigorous sun would catch it up at 
eve 

And use it for an anvil till he had filled 

The shelves of heaven with burning 
thunderbolts, 

Protesting against night and darkness : — 
then, ^ 

When all his • setting trouble was re- 
solved 

To a trance of passive glory, you might 
see 

In apparition on the golden sky 

(Alas, my Giotto's background!) the 
sheep run 

Along the tine clear outline, small as 
mice 

That run along a witch's scarlet thread. 



Not a grand nature. Not my chestnut- 
woods 
Of Vallombrosa, cleaving byjhe spurs 
To the precipices. Not my headlong 

leaps 
Of waters, that cry out for joy or fear 
In leaping through the palpitating pines, 
Like a white soul tossed out to eternity 
With thrills of time upon it. Not in- 
deed 
My multitudinous mountains, sitting in 
The magic circle, with the mutual touch 



Electric, panting from their full deep 

hearts 
Beneath the influent heavens, and wait-. 

ing for 
Communion and commission. Italy 
Is one thing, England one. 

On English ground 
You understand the letter . . ere the 

fall 
How Adam lived in a garden. All the 

fields 
Are tied up fast with hedges, nosegay- 
like; 
The hills are crumpled plains, — the plains 

parterres. 
The trees, round, woolly, ready to be 

clipped ; 
And if you seek for any wilderness 
You find, at best, a park. A nature 

tamed 
And grown domestic like a barn-door 

fowl, 
Which does not awe you with its claws 

and beak, 
Nor tempt you to an eyrie too high up. 
But which, in cackling, sets you think- 
ing of 
Your eggs to-morrow at breakfast, in the 

pause 
Of finer meditation. 

Rather say, 
A sweet familiar nature, stealing in 
As a dog might, or child, to touch your 

haad 
Or pluck your gown, and humbly mind 

you so 
Of presence and affection, excellent 
For inner uses, from the things without. 

I could not be unthankful, I who was 
Entreated thus and holpen. In the room 
I speak of, ere the house was well awake, 
And also after it was well asleep, 
I sat alone, and drew the blessing in 
Of all that nature. With a gradual step, 
A stir among the leaves, a breath, a ray, 
It came in softly, while the angels made 
A place for it beside me. The moon 

came. 
And swept my chamber clean of foolish 

thoughts. 
The sun came, saying, ' Shall I lift this 

light 
Against the lime-tree, and you will not 

look? 



I make the birds sing — listeii ! . . but, 

for you, 
God never hears your voice, excepting 

when 
You lie upon the bed at nights and 

weep.' 

Then, something moved me. Then, I 

wakened up 
More slowly than I verily write now, 
But wholly, at last, I wakened, opened 

wide 
The window and my soul, and let the 

airs 
And out-door sights sweep gradual gos- 
pels in, 
Regenerating what I was. O life, 
How oft we throw it off and think, — 

' Enough, 
Enough of life in so much ! — here's a 

cause 
For rupture ;— herein we must break 

with Life, 
Or be ourselves unworthy ; here we are 

wronged. 
Maimed, spoiled for aspiration : farewell 

Life ! ' 
— And so, as froward babes, we hide 

our eyes 
And think all ended. — Then, Life calls 

to us 
In some transformed, apocalyptic voice, 
Above us, or below us, or around : 
Perhaps we name it Nature's voice, or 

Love's, 
Tricking ourselves, because we are more 

ashamed 
To own our compensations than our 

griefs : 
Still, Life's voice ! — still, we make our 

peace with Life. 

And L so young then, was not sullen. 

Soon 
I used to get up early, just to sit 
And watch the morning quicken in the 

gray. 
And hear the silence open like a flower. 
Leaf after leaf, — and stroke with listless 

hand 
The woodbine through the window, till 

at last 
I came to do it with a sort of love. 
At foolish unaware: whereat I smiled, — 
A melancholy smile, to catch myself 



AURORA LEIGH. 

Smiling for joy. 



Capacity for joy 
Admits temptation. It seemed, next. 

worth while 
To dodge the sharp sword set against my 

life; 
To slip down stairs through all the sleepy- 
house. 
As mute as any dream there, and escape 
As a soul from the body, out of doors, 
Glide through the shrubberies, drop into 

the lane. 
And wander on the hills an hour or two, 
Then back again before the house should 
stir. 

Or else I sat on in my chamber green. 
And lived my life, and thought my 

thoughts, and prayed 
My prayers without the vicar ; read my 

books. 
Without considering whether they were 

fit 
To do me good. Mark, there. We get 

no good 
By being ungenerous, even to a book. 
And calculatmg profits . . so much help 
By so much reading. It is rather when 
We gloriously forget ourselves and 

plunge 
Soul-forward, headlong, into a book's 

profound, 
Impassioned for its beauty and salt of 

truth— 
'Tis then we get the right good from a 

book. 

I read much. What my father taught 
before 

From many a volume, Love re-empha- 
sised 

Upon the self-same pages : Theophrast 

Grew tender with the memory of his 
eyes, 

And .(Elian made mine wet. The trick 
of Greek 

And Latin, he had taught me, as he 
would 

Have taught me wrestling or the game 
of fives 

If such he had known, — most like a ship- 
wrecked man 

Who heaps his single platter with goats' 
cheese 

And scarlet berries ; or like any man 



AURORA LEIGH. 



"Who loves but one, and so gives all at 

once, 
Because he has it, rather than because 
He counts it worthy. Thus, my father 

gave ; 
And thus, as did the women formerly 
By young Achilles, when tiiey pinned 

the veil 
Across the boy's audacious front, and 

swept 
With tuneful laughs the silver-fretted 

rocks. 
He wrapt his little daughter in his large 
Man's doublet, careless did it fit or no. 

But, after I. had read for memory, 

I read for hope. The path my father's 
foot 

Had trod me out, which suddenly broke 
off,_ 

(What time he dropped the wallet of the 
flesh 

And passed) alone I carried on, and set 

My child-heart 'gainst the thorny under- 
wood, 

To reach the grassy shelter of the trees. 

Ah, babe i' the wood, without a brother- 
babe ! 

My own self-pity, like the red-breast 
bird. 

Flies back to cover all that past with 
leaves. 

Sublimest danger, over which none 

weeps, 
When any young wayfaring soul goes 

forth 
Alone, unconscious of the perilous road. 
The day-sun dazzling in his limpid eyes. 
To thrust his own way, he an alien, 

through 
The world of books ! Ah, you ! — you 

think it fine. 
You clap hands — ' A fair day ! ' — you 

cheer him on. 
As if the worst, could happen, were to 

rest 
Too long beside a fountain. Yet, be- 
hold, 
Behold ! — the world of books is still the 

world ; 
And worldlings in it are less merciful 
And more puissant. For the wicked 

there 



Are winged like angels. Everv knife 
that strikes. 

Is edged from elemental fire to assail 

A spiritual life. The beautiful seems 
right 

By force of beauty, and the feeble wrong 

Because of weakness. Power is justi- 
fied, 

Though armed against St. Michael. 
Many a crown 

Covers bald foreheads. In the book- 
world, true. 

There's no lack, neither, of God's saints 
and kings. 

That shake the ashes of the grave aside 

From their calm locks, and undiscomfited 

Look steadfast truths against Time's 
changing mask. 

True, many a prophet teaches in the 
roads ; 

True, many a seer pulls down the flam- 
ing heavens 

Upon his own head in strong martyr- 
dom. 

In order to light men a moment's space. 

But stay !— who judges ?— who distin- 
guishes 

'Twixt Saul and Nahash justly, at first 
sight. 

And leaves king Saul precisely at the 
sin. 

To serve king David? who discerns at 
once 

The sound of the trumpets, when the 
trumpets blow 

For Alaric as well as Charlemagne ? 

Who judges wizards, and can tell true 
seers 

From conjurors? The child, there? 
Would you leave 

That child to wander in a battle-field 

And push his innocent smile against the 
guns? 

Or even in a catacomb . . . his torch 

Grown ragged in the fluttering air, and 
all 

The dark a-mutter round him ? not a 
child. 

I read books bad and good — some bad 
and good 

At once : (good aims not always make 
good books ; 

Well-tempered spades turn up ill-smell- 
ing soils 



AURORA LEIGH. 



In digging vineyards, even) books, that 

prove 
God's being so definitely, that man's 

doubt 
Grows self-defined the other side the line, 
Made Atheist by suggestion; moral 

books. 
Exasperating to license; genial books, 
Discounting from the human dignity ; 
And merry books, which set you weep- 
ing when 
The sun shines, — ay, and melancholy 

books, 
Which make you laugh that any one 

should weep 
In this disjointed life for one wrong 

more. 

The world of books is still the world, I 

write, 
And both worlds have God's providence, 

thank God, 
To keep and hearten : wltli some strug- 
gle, indeed. 
Among the breakers, some hard swim- 

muig through 
The deeps — I lost breath in my soul 

sometimes, 
And cried, ' God save me if there's any 

God, 
But, even so, God saved me ; and being 

dashed 
From error on to error, every turn 
Still brought me nearer to the central 

truth. 

I thought so. All this anguish in the 
thick 

Of men's opinions . . press and coun- 
terpress. 

Now up, now down, now underfoot, and 
now 

Emergent . . all the best of it, perhaps, 

But throws you back upon a noble trust 

And use of your own instinct, — merely 
proves 

Pure reason stronger than bare infer- 
ence 

At strongest. Try it, — fix against heav- 
en's wall 

Your scaling ladders of school logic — 
mount 

Step by step ! — Sight goes faster ; that 
still ray 



Which strikes out from you, how, you 
cannot tell, 

And why, you know not — (did you elim- 
inate, 

That such as you, indeed, should ana- 
lyse ?) 

Goes straight and fast as light, and high 
as God. 



The cygnet finds the water ; but the 
man 

Is born in ignorance of his element, 

And feels out blind at first, disorganised 

Ey sin i' the blood,— his spirit-insight 
dulled 

And crossed by his sensations. Pres- 
ently 

He feels it quicken in the dark some- 
times ; 

When mark, be reverent, be obedient. — 

For such dumb motions of imperfect life 

Are oracles of vital Deity 

Attesting the Hereafter. Let who says 

' The soul's a clean white paper,' rather 
say, 

A palimpsest, a prophet's holograph 

Defiled, erased and covered by a 
monk's, — 

The apocalypse, by a Longus ! poring 
on 

Which obscene text, we may discern 
perhaps 

Some fair, fine trace of what was written 
once. 

Some upstroke of an alpha and omega 

Expressing the old Scripture. 

Books, books, books ! 

I had found the secret of a garret-room 

Piled high with cases in my father's 
name ; 

Piled high, packed large, — where, creep- 
ing 111 and out 

Among the giant fossils of my past. 

Like some small nimble mouse between 
the ribs 

Of a mastodon, I nibbled here and 
there 

At this or that box, pulling through the 
gap, 

In heats of terror, haste, victorious jov. 

The first book first. And how I felt it 
beat 

Under my pillow, in the morning's dark.. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



An hour before the sun would let me 

read I 
My books ! 

At last, because the time was ripe, 
I chanced upon the poets. 

As the earth 
Plunges in fury, when the internal fires 
Have reached and pricked her heart, 

and, throwing flat 
The marts and temples, the triumphal 

gates 
And towers of observation, clears her- 
self 
To elemental freedom — thus, my soul, 
At poetry's divine first finger touch, 
Let go conventions and sprang up sur- 
prised, 
Convicted of the great eternities 
Before two worlds. 

What's this, Aurora Leigh, 
You write so of the poets, and not laugU ? 
Those virtuous liars, dreamers after 

dark, 
Exaggerators of the sun and moon, 
And soothsayers in a tea-cup? 

I write so 
Of the only truth-tellers, now left to 

God, 
The only speakers of essential truth, 
Opposed to relative, comparative, 
And temporal truths ; the only holders 

. by 
His sun-skirts, through conventional 

grey glooms ; 
The only teachers who instruct mankind. 
From just a shadow on a charnel wall. 
To find man's veritable stature out. 
Erect, sublime, — the measure of a man, 
And that's the measure of an angel, 

says 
The apostle. Ay, and while your com- 
mon men 
Lay telegraphs, gauge railroads, reign, 

reap, dine, 
And dust the flaunty carpets of the world 
For kings to walk on, or our president, 
Tlie poet suddenly will catch them up 
With his voice like a thunder . . ' This 

is soul. 
This is life, this word is being said in 

heaven. 
Here's God down on us ! what are you 

about ?' 
How all those workers start amid their 
work, 



Look round, look up, and feel, a mo- 
ment's space. 

That carpet-dusting, though a pretty 
trade, 

Is not the imperative labour after all. 

My own best poets, am I one with you, 
'I'hat thus I love you, — or but one 

through love ? 
Does all this smell of thyme about my 

feet 
Conclude my visit to your holy hill 
In personal presence, or but testify 
The rustling of your vesture through my 

dreams 
With influent odours? When my joy 

and pain. 
My thought and aspiration, like the 

stops 
Of pipe or flute, are absolutely dumb 
Unless melodious, do you play on me. 
My pipers, — and if, sooth, you did not 

blow. 
Would no sound come ? or is the music 

mine, 
As a man's voice or breath is called his 

own, 
Imbreathed by the Life-breather? 

There's a doubt 
For cloudy seasons ! 

But the sun was high 
When first I felt my pulses set them- 
selves 
For concord ; when the rhythmic turbu- 
lence 
Of blood and brain swept outward upon 

words, 
As wind upon the' alders, blanching 

them 
By turning up their under-natures till 
They trembled in dilation. O delight 
And triumph of the poet,— who would 

say 
A man's mere 'yes,' a woman's common 

'no,' 
A little human hope of that or this. 
And says the word so that it burns you 

through 
With a special revelation, shakes the 

heart 
Of all the men and women in the world, 
As if one came back from the dead and 

spoke, 
With eyes too happy, a familiar thin^ 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Become divine i' the utterance ! while 

for him 
Tiie poet, speaker, he expands with 

joy ; 

The palpitating angel in his flesh 
Thrills inly with consenting fellowship 
To those innumerous spirits who sun 

themselves 
Outside of time. 

O life, O poetry, 
— Which means life in life 1 cognisant of 

life 
Beyond this blood-beat, — passionate for 

truth 
Bevond these senses, — poetry, my life. 
My eagle, with both grappling feet still 

hot 
From Zeus's thunder, who has ravished 

me 
Away from rU the shepherds, sheep, and 

dogs, 
And set me in the Olympian roar and 

round 
Of luminous faces, for a cup-bearer. 
To keep the mouths of all the godheads 

moist 
For everlasting laughters, — I, myself 
Half drunk across the beaker with their 

eyes ! 
How those gods look ! 

Enough so, Ganymede. 
V/e shall not bear above a round or 

two — 
We drop the golden cup at Here's foot 
And swoon back to the earth,— and find 

ourselves 
Face-down among the pine-cones, cold 

with dew. 
While the dogs bark, and many a shep- 
herd scoffs, 
' What's come now to the youth ? ' Such 

ups and downs 
Have poets. 

Am I such Indeed ? The name 
Is royal, and to sign it like a queen. 
Is what I dare not,— though some royal 

blood 
Would seem to tingle in me now and 

then, 
With sense of power and ache,— with 

imposthumes 
And manias usual to the race. How- 

beit 
I dare not : 'tis too easy to go mad. 
And ape a Bourbon in a crown ot straws : 



The thing's too common. 

Many fervent souls 
Strike rhyme on rhyme, who would strike 

steel on steel 
If steel had offered, in a restless heat 
Of doing something. Many tender souls 
Have strung their losses on a rhyming 

thread, 
As children, cowslips : — the more pains 

they take. 
The work more withers. Young men, 

ay, and maids, 
Too often sow their wild oats in tame 

verse, 
Before they sit down under their own 

vine 
And live for use. Alas, near all the 

birds 
Will sing at dawn, — and yet we do not 

take 
The chaffering swallow for the holy lark. 

In those days, though, I never analysed. 

Not even myself Analysis comes late. 

You catch a sight of Nature, earliest, 

In full front sun-face, and your eyelids 
wink 

And drop before the wonder of 't ; you 
miss 

The form, through seeing the light. I 
lived, those days. 

And wrote because I lived — unlicensed 
else: 

My heart beat in my brain. Life's vio- 
lent flood 

Abolished bounds, — and, which my 
neighbour's field. 

Which mine, what mattered ? It is thus 
in youth 

We play at leap-frog over the god Term ; 

The love within us and the love without 

Are mixed, confounded ; if we are loved 
or love, 

We scarce distinguish : thus with other 
power ; 

Being acted on and acting seem the 
same: 

In that first onrush of life's chariot- 
wheels, 

We know not if the forests move or we. 

And so, like most young poets, in a 

flush 
Of individual life I poured myself 
Along the vems of others, and achieved 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Mere lifeless imitations of live verse, 

And made the living answer for the 
dead, 

Profaning nature. ' Touch not, do not 
taste. 

Nor handle,' — we're too legal, who write 
young : 

We beat the phorminx till we hurt our 
thumbs. 

As if still ignorant of counterpoint ; 

We call the Muse . . 'O Muse, benig- 
nant Muse ! ' — 

As if we had seen her purple-braided 
head 

With the eyes in it, start between the 
boughs 

As often as a stag's. What make-be- 
lieve, 

With so much earnest ! what effete re- 
sults, 

From virile efforts ! what cold wire- 
drawn odes, 

From such white heats ! — bucolics, where 
the cow 

Would scare the writer if they splashed 
the mud «^ 

In lashing off the flies, — didactics, driv- 
en 

Against the heels of what the master 
said ; 

And counterfeiting epics, shrill with 
trumps 

A babe might blow between two strain- 
ing cheeks 

Of bubbled rose, to make his mother 
laugh ; 

And elegiac griefs, and songs of love. 

Like cast-off nosegays picked up on the 
road. 

The worse for being warm : all these 
things, writ 

On happy mornings, with a morning 
heart. 

That leaps for love, is active for re- 
solve. 

Weak for art only. Oft, the ancient 
forms 

Will thrill, indeed, in carrying the young 
blood. 

The wine-skins, now and then, a little 
warped, 

Will crack even, as the new wine gurgles 
in. 

Spare the old bottles ! — spill not the new 
wine. 



By Keat's soul, the man who never 

stepped 
In gradual progress like another man. 
But, turning grandly on his central self, 
Ensphered himself in twenty perfect 

years, 
And died, not young, — (the life of a long 

life. 
Distilled to a mere drop, falling like a 

tear 
Upon the world's cold cheek to make it 

burn • 
For ever ;) by that strong excepted soul, 
I count it strange, and hard to under- 
stand 
That nearly all young poets should write 

old; 
That Pope was sexagenary at sixteen. 
And beardless Byron academical, 
And so with others. It may be, per- 
haps, 
Such have not settled long and deep 

enough 
In trance, to attain to clairvoyance, — and 

still 
The memory mixes with the vision, 

spoils, 
And works it turbid. 

Or perhaps, again 
In order to discover the Muse- Sphinx, 
The melancholy desert must sweep 

round, 
Behind you as before. — 

For me, I wrote 
False poems, like the rest, and thought 

them true, 
Because myself was true in writing them. 
I peradventure have writ true ones since 
With less complacence. 

But I could not hide 
My quickening inner life from those at 

watch. 
They saw a light at a window now and 

then. 
They had not set there. Who had set it 

there ?. 

My father's sister started when she 

caught 
My soul agaze in my eyes. She could 

not say 
I had no business with a sort of soul. 
But plainly she objected, — and demurred 
That souls were dangerous things to 

carry straight 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Through all the spilt saltpetre of the 
world. 

She said sometimes, ' Aurora, have j'ou 

done 
Your task this morning? — have you read 

that book ? 
And are you ready for the crochet 

here ?' — 
As if she said, ' I know there's some- 
thing wrong ; 
I know I have not ground you down 

enough 
To flatten and bake you to a wholesome 

crust 
For household uses and proprieties, 
Before the rain has got into my barn 
And set the grains a-sprouting. What, 

you're green 
With out-door impudence? you almost 

grow ? ' 
To which I answered, ' Would she hear 

my task, 
And verify my abstract of the book ? 
Or should I sit down to the crochet 

work? 
Was such her pleasure?' . . Then I 

sate and teased 
The patient needle till it spilt the thread 
Which oozed off from it in meandering 

lace 
From hour to hour. I was not, there- 
fore, sad ; 
My soul was singing at a work apart 
Behind the wall of sense, as safe from 

harm 
As sings the lark when sucked up out of 

sight, 
In vortices of glory and blue air. 

And so, through forced work and spon- 
taneous work, 

The inner life informed the outer life, 

Reduced the irregular blood to settled 
rhythms. 

Made cool the forehead with fresh- 
sprinkling dreams. 

And, "rounding to the spheric soul the 
thin 

Pined body, struck a colour up the 
cheeks. 

Though somewhat faint. I clenched my 
brows across 

My blue eyes greatening in the looking- 
glass, 



And said, ' We'll live, Aurora ! we'll be 

strong. 
The dogs are on us — but we will not die. 

Whoever lives true life, will love true 
love. 

I learnt to love that England. Very 
oft, 

Before the day was born, or otherwise 

Through secret windings of the after- 
noons, 

I threw my hunters off and plunged my- 
self 

Among the deep hills, as a hunted stag 

Will take the waters, shivering with the 
fear 

And passion of the course. And when 
at last 

Escaped,- so many a green slope built 
on slope 

Betwixt me and the enemy's house be- 
hind, 

I dared to rest, or wander, — in a rest 

Made sweeter for the step upon the 
grass,— 

And view the ground's most gentle dim- 
plement, 

(As if God's finger touched but did not 
press 

In making England) such an up and 
down 

Of verdure, — nothing too much up or 
down, 

A ripple of land ; such little hills, the 
sky 

Can stoop to tenderly and the wheatfields 
climb ; 

Such nooks of valleys, lined with orchi' 
ses, 

Fed full of noises by invisible streams ; 

And open pastures, where you scarcely 
tell 

White daisies from white dew, — at inter- 
vals 

The mythic oaks and elm-trees standing 
out 

Self-poised upon their prodigy of shade, — 

I thought my father's land was worthy 
too 

Of being my Shakspeare's. 

Very oft alone. 

Unlicensed ; not unfreqiiently with leave 

To walk the third with Romney and his 
friend 

The rising painter, Vincent Carnngton, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Whom men judge hardly as bee-bon- 
neted. 
Because he holds that, paint a body 

well, 
You paint a soul by implication, like 
The grand first Master. Pleasant 

walks ! for if 
He said . . ' When I was last in Ita- 
ly' ■ • 
It sounded as an instrument that's 

played 
Too far off for the tune — and yet it's 

fine 
To listen. 

Ofter we walked only two, 
If cousin Romney pleased to walk with 

me. 
We read, or talked, or quarrelled, as it 

chanced : 
We were not lovers, nor even friends 

well-matched. 
Say rather, scholars upon different 

tracks, 
And thinkers disagreed ; he, overfull 
Of what is, and I, haply, overbold 
For what might be. 

But then the thrushes sang, 
And shook my pulses and the elms' new 

leaves, — 
At which I turned, and held my finger 

up. 
And bade him mark that, howsoe'er the 

world 
Went ill, as he related, certainly 
The thrushes still sang in it. At the 

word 
His brow would soften, — and he bore 

with me 
In melancholy patience, not unkind, 
While breaking into voluble ecstacy 
I flattered all the beauteous country 

round. 
All poets use . . the skies, the clouds, 

the fields, 
The happy violets hiding from the roads 
'I'he primroses run down to, carrying 

gold. 
The tangled hedgerows, where the cows 

push out 
Impatient horns and tolerant churning 

mouths 
'Twixt dripping ash-boughs, — hedgerows 

all alive 
With birds and gnats and large white 

butterflies 



Which look as if the May-flower had 
caught life 

And palpitated forth upon the wind. 

Hills, vales, woods, netted in a silver 
mist. 

Farms, granges, doubled up among the 
hills. 

And cattle grazing in the watered vales. 

And cottage chimneys smoking from the 
woods. 

And cottage-gardens smelling every- 
where, 

Confused with smell of orchards. ' See,' 
I said, 

' And see ! is God not with us on the 
earth ? 

And shall we put him down by aught we 
do? 

Who says there's nothing for the poor 
and vile 

Save poverty and wickedness ? behold ! ' 

And ankle-deep in English grass I leap- 
ed, 

And clapped my hands, and called all 
very fair. 

In the beginning when God called all 

good, 
Even then was evil near us, it is writ. 
But we indeed who call things good and 

fair. 
The evil is upon us while we speak ; 
Deliver us from evil, let us pray. 



SECOND BOOK. 

Times followed one another. Came a 

morn 
I stood upon the brink of twenty years, 
And looked before and after, as I stood 
Woman and artist, — either incomplete. 
Both credulous of completion. There I 

held 
The whole creation in my little cup, 
And smiled with thirsty lips before I 

drank 
'Good health to you and me, sweet 

neighbour mine. 
And all these peoples.' 

I was glad, that day ; 
The June was in me, with its multitudes 
Of nightingales all singing in the dark, 
And rosebuds reddening where the calyx 

split. 



Al/IiOJ^A LEIGH. 



I felt so youns, so strong, so sure of 

God! 
So glad, I could not choose be very wise ! 

And, old at twenty, was inclined to pull 

My childhood backward in a childish 
jesi 

To see the face oft once more, and fare- 
well ! 

In which fantastic mood I bounded forth 

At early morning, — would not wait so 
long 

As even to snatch niy bonnet by the 
strings, 

But, brushing a green trail across the 
lawn 

With my gown in the dew, took will and 
way 

Among the acacias of the shrubberies. 

To fly my fancies in the open air 

And keep my birthday, till my aunt 
awoke 

To stop good dreams. Meanwhile I 
murmured on 

As honeyed bees keep humming to them- 
selves ; 

' The worthiest poets have remained un- 
crowned 

Till death has bleached their foreheads to 
the bone, 

And so with me it must be, unless I 
prove 

Unworthy of the grand adversity. 

And certainly I would not fail so much. 

What, therefore, if I crown myself to-day 

In sport, not pride, to learn the feel of it. 

Before my brows be numbed as Dante's 
own 

To all the tender pricking of such 
leaves ? 

Such leaves ! what leaves? ' 

I pulled the branches down, 

To choose from. 

' Not the bay ! I choose no bay ; 

The fates deny us if we are overbold : 

Nor myrtle — which means chiefly love ; 
and love 

Is something awful which one dares not 
touch 

So early o' mornings. This verbena 
strains 

The point of passionate fragrance ; and 
hard by. 

This guelder rose, at far toosHght a beck 

Of the wind, will toss about her flower- 
apples. 



Ah--there's my choice, — that ivv on the 

wall. 
That headlong ivy ! not a leaf will grow 
But thinking of a wreath. Large leaves, 

smooth leaves. 
Serrated like my vines, and half as green. 
I like such ivy ; bold to leap a height 
'Twas strong to climb ! as good to grow 

on graves 
As twist about a thyrsus ; pretty too, 
(And that's not ill) when twisted round a 

comb.' 
Thus speaking to myself, half singing it, 
Because some thoughts are fashioned 

like a bell 
To ring witli once being touched, I drew 

a wreath 
Drenched, blinding me with dew, across 

my brow 
And fastening it behind so, . . turning 

faced 
. . My public ! — cousin Romney — with 

a mouth 
Twice graver than his eyes. 

I stood there fixed — 
My arms up, like the caryatid, sole 
Of some abolished temple, helplessly 
Persistent in a gesture which derides 
A former purpose. Yet my blush was 

flame, 
As if from flax, not stone. 

' Aurora Leigh, 
The earliest of Aurora's ! ' 

Hand stretched out 
I clasped, as shipwrecked men will clasp 

a hand. 
Indifferent to the sort of palm. The 

tide 
Had caught me at my pastime, writing 

down 
My foolish name too near upon the sea 
Which drowned me with a blush as fool- 
ish. ' You, 
My cousin ! ' 

The smile died out in his eyes 
And dropped upon his lips, a cold dead 

weight. 
For just a moment . . ' Here's a book 

I found ! 
No name writ on it — poems, by the 

form ; 
Some Greek upon the margin, — lady's 

Greek, 
Without the accents. Read it ? Not a 
word. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



I saw at once the thing had witchcraft 

in't, 
Whereof the reading calls up dangerous 

spirits ; 
I rather bring it to the witch.' 

' My book ! 
You found it ' . . 

' In the hollow by the stream 
That beach leans down into — of which 

you said 
The Oread in it has a Naiad's heart 
And pines for waters.' 

' Thank you.' 

' Thanks to yoti, 
My cousin ! that I have seen you not too 

mucli 
Witch, scholar, poet, dreamer, and the 

rest, 
To be a woman also.' 

With a glance 
The smile rose in his eyes again, and 

touched 
The ivy on my forehead, light as air. 
I answered gravely, ' Poets needs must 

be 
Or men or women— mote's the pity.' 

' Ah, 
But men, and still less women, happily, 
Scarce need be poets. Keep to the 

green wreath. 
Since even dreaming of the "stone and 

bronze 
Brings headaches, pretty cousin, and 

defiles 
The clean white morning dresses.' 

' So you judge ! 
Because I love the beautiful, 1 must 
Love pleasure chiefly, and be over- 
charged 
For ease and whiteness. Well— you 

know the world, 
And only miss your cousin ; 'tis not 

much. 
But learn this : I would rather take my 

part 
With God's Dead, who afford to walk in 

white 
Yet spread his glory, than keep quiet 

here, 
And gather up my feet from even a 
step, ., . , 

For fear to sou my gown in so much 

dust. 
I choose to walk at all risks.— Here, if 
heads 



That hold a rhythmic thought, must act 

perforce 
For my part I choose headaches, — and 

to-day's 
My birthday.' 

' Dear Aurora, choose instead 
To cure them. You have balsams.' 

'I perceive 
The headache is too noble for my sex. 
You think the heartache would sound 

decenter. 
Since that's the woman's special, proper 

ache. 
And altogether tolerable, except 
To a woman.' 

Saying which, I loosed my wreath. 
And swinging it beside me as I walked. 
Half petulant, half playful, as we walked, 
I sent a sidelong look to find his 

thought,— 
As falcon set on falconer's finger may. 
With sidelong head, and startled, braving 

eye, 
Which means, ' You'll see — you'll see ! 

I'll soon take flight — 
You shall not hinder.' He, as shaking 

out 
His hand and answering, ' Fly then,' did 

not speak, 
Except by such a gesture. Silently 
We paced, until, just coming into sight 
Of the house-windows, he abruptly 

caught 
At one end of the swinging wreath, and 

said, 
Aurora !' There I stopped short, breath 

and all. 

' Aurora, let's be serious, and throw by 
This game of head and heart. Life 

means, be sure, 
Both heart and head, — both active, both 

complete. 
And both in earnest. Men and women 

make 
The world, as head and heart make 

human life. 
Work man, work woman, since there's 

work to do 
In this beleaguered earth, for head and 

heart. 
And thought can never do the work of 

love : 
But work for ends, I mean for uses : 

not 



AURORA LEIGH. 



27 



Tor such sleek fringes (do you call them 

ends? 
Still less God's glory) as we sew our- 
selves 
Upon the velvet of those baldaquins 
Held 'twixt us and the sun. That book 

of yours, 
I have not read a page of; but I toss 
A rose up — it falls calyx down, you see ! 
The chances are that, being a woman, 

young, 
And pure, with such a pair of large, calm 

eyes, 
You write as well . . and ill • . upon the 

whole. 
As other women. If as well, what then ? 
If even a httle better, . . still what then ? 
We want the Best in art now, or no art. 
The tiine is done for facile settings up 
Of minnow gods, nymphs here and 

tritons there ; , 

The polytheists have gone out in God, 
That unity of Bests. No best, no God ! 
And so with art, we say. Give art's 

divine. 
Direct, indubitable, real as griefs 
Or leave us to the grief we grow our- 
selves 
Divine by overcoming with mere hope 
And most prosaic patience. You, you 

are young 
As Eve with nature's daybreak on her 

face ; 
But this same world you are come to, 

dearest coz. 
Has done with keeping birthdays, saves 

her wreaths 
To hang upon her ruins, — and forgets 
To ryhme the cry with viliich she still 

beats back 
Those savage, hungry dogs that hunt her 

down 
To the empty grave ot Christ. The 

world's hard pressed ; 
The sweat of labour in the early curse 
Has (turning acrid in six thousand years) 
Become the sweat of torture. Who has 

time. 
An hour's time . . think ! . . to sit up- 
on a bank 
And hear the cymbal tinkle in white 

hands? 
When Egypt's slain, I say, let Miriam 

sing !— 
Before . . Where's Moses?' 



' Ah— exactly that 
Where's Moses ? — is a Moses to be 

found ? 
You'll seek him vainly in the bulrushes, 
While I in vain touch cymbals. Yet 

concede. 
Such sounding brass has done some ac- 
tual good 
(The application in a woman's hand. 
If that were credible, being scarcely 

spoilt,) 
In colonising beehives.' 

'There it is 1 — 
You play beside a death-bed like a child, 
Yet measure to yourself a prophet's 

place 
To teach the living. None of all these 

things. 
Can women understand. You generalise 
Oh, nothifig !-not even grief! Your 

quick-breathed hearts, 
So sympathetic to the personal pang. 
Close on each seyarate knife-stroke, 

yielding up 
A whole life at each wound ; incapable 
Of deepening, widening a large lap of 

life 
To hold the world-full woe. The human 

race 
To you means, such a child, or such a 

man. 
You saw one morning waiting in ih.e 

cold. 
Beside that gate, perhaps. You gather 

up 
A few such cases, and when strong some- 
times 
Will write of factories and of slaves, as 

if 
Your father were a negro, and your son 
A spinner in the mills. All's yours and 

you. 
All, coloured with your blood, or other- 
wise 
Just nothing to you. Why, I call you 

hard 
To general suffering. Here's the world 

half blind 
With intellectual light, half brutahsed 
With civilisation, having caught the 

plague 
In silks from Tarsus, shrieking east and 

west . • 

Along a thousand railroads, mad with 

pain 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And sin too ! . . does one woman of you 

all, 
(You who weep easily) grow pale to see 
This tiger shake his cage ? — does one of 

you 
Stand still from dancing, stop from 

stringing pearls, 
And pine and die because of the great 

sum 
Of universal anguish?— Show me a tear 
Wet as Cordelia's, in eyes bright as 

yours, 
Because the world is mad ! You cannot 

count, 
That you should weep for this account, 

not you ! 
You weep for what you know. A red- 
haired child 
Sick in a fever, if you touch him once. 
Though but so little as with a finger-tip, 
Will set you weeping; but a million 

sick . . 
You could as soon weep for the rule of 

three. 
Or compound fractions. Therefore, this 

same world 
Uncomprehended by you, must remain 
Uninfluenced by you. Women as you 

are. 
Mere women, personal and passionate, 
You give us doating mothers, and perfect 

wives. 
Sublime Madonnas, and enduring saints ! 
We get no Christ from you, — and verily 
We shall not get a poet, in my mind.' 

' With which conclusion you conclude ' . . 

' But this— 

That you, Aurora, with the large live 

brow 
And steady eyelids, cannot condescend 
To jilay at art, as children play at 

swords. 
To show a pretty spirit, chiefly admired 
Because true action is impossible. 
You never can be satisfied with praise 
Which men give women when they judge 

a book 
Not as mere work, but as mere woman's 

work. 
Expressing the comparative respect 
Which means the absolute scorn. 'Oh, 

excellent I 
' What grace ! what facile turns ! what 

fluent sweeps 1 



' What delicate discernment . . almost 

thought ! 
' The book does honour to the sex, we 

hold. 
' Among our female authors we make 

room 
' For this fair writer, and congratulate 
' The country that produces in these 

times 
' Such women, competent to . . spell.' 

' Stop there ! ' 
I answered — burning through his thread 

of talk 
With a quick flame of emotion, — ' You 

have read 
My soul, if not my book, and argue 

well 
I would not condescend . . we will not 

say 
To such a kind of praise, (a worthless 

end 
Is praise of all kinds) but to such a use 
Of holy art and golden life. I am 

young. 
And peradventure weak — you tell me 

so — 
Through being a woman. And, for all i 

the rest, 
Take thanks for justice. I would rather , 

dance 
At fairs on tight-rope, till the babies . 

drojjped \ 

Their gingerbread for joy, — than shift :| 

the types i 

For tolerable verse, intolerable 
To men who act and suffer. Better far 
Pursue a frivolous trade by serious ; 

means, 
Than a sublime art frivolously.' 

'You 
Choose nobler work than either, O moist \ 

eyes 
And hurrying lips, and heaving heart ! 

We are young, 
Aurora, you and I. The world . . look 

round . . 

The world, we're come too late, is swol- 
len hard 
With perished generations and their, 

sins : 
The civiliser's spade grinds horribly 
On dead men's bones, and cannot tumij 

up soil 

That's otherwise than fetid. All suc- 
cess 



AURORA LEIGH. 



29 



Proves partial 'failure ; all advance im- 

pl ies 
What's left behind ; all triumpli, some- 
thing crushed 
At tlie chariot-wheels ; all government, 

some wrong : 
And rich men make the poor, who curse 

the rich, 
Who agonise together, rich and jioor, 
Under and over, in the social spasm 
And crisis of the ages. Here's an age, 
That makes its own vocation ! here, we 

have stepped 
Across the bounds of time ! here's 

nouglit to see. 
But just the rich man and just Lazarus, 
And both in torments ; with a mediate 

gulph. 
Though not a hint of Abraham's bosom. 

_ Who, 
Being man, Aurora, can stand calmly by 
And view these things, and never tease 

his soul 
For some great cure ? No physic for 

this grief. 
In all the earth and heavens too ? ' 

' You believe 
In God, for your part?— ay? that He 

who makes, 
Can make good things from ill things, 

best from worst. 
As men plant tulips upon dunghills 

when 
They wish them finest? ' 

' True. A death-heat is 
The same as life-heat, to be accurate ; 
And ill all nature is no deatli at all, 
As men account of death, as long as God 
Stands witnessing for life perpetually, 
By being just God. That's abstract 

trutli, I know. 
Philosophy, or sympathy with God : 
But I, I sympathise with man, not God, 
I think I was a man for chiefly this; 
And when I stand beside a dying bed, 
It's death to me. Observe, — it had not 

much 
Consoled the race of mastodons to know 
Before they went to fossil, that anon 
Their place would quicken with the ele- 
phant ; 
They were not elephants but mastodons: 
And I, a man. as men are now and not 
As men may be hereafter, feel with men 
In the agonising present.' 



'Is it so,' 
I said, ' my cousin? is the wor'd so bad. 
While I hear nothing of it through the 

trees ? 
The world was always evil, — but so bad?' 

' So bad, Aurora. Dear, my soul is grey 
With poring over the long sum of ill ; 
So much for vice, so much for discontent, 
So much for the necessities of power, 
So much for the connivances of fear, 
Coherent in statistical despairs 
With siich a total of distracted life, . . 
To see it down in figures on a page, 
Plain, silent, clear . , as God sees 

through the earth 
The sense of all the graves .... that's 

terrible 
For one who is not God, and cannot 

right 
The wrong he looks on. May I choose 

indeed 
But vow away my years, my means, my 

aims, 
Among the helpers, if there's any help 
In sucli a social strait? The common 

blood 
That swings along my veins, is strong 

enough 
To draw me to this duty.' 

Then I spoke. 
' I have not stood long on the strand of 

life. 
And these salt waters have had scarcely 

time 
To creep so high up as to wet my feet. 
I cannot judge these tides — I shall, per- 
haps. 
A woman's always younger than a man 
At equal years, because she is disallowed 
Maturing by the outdoor sun and air. 
And kept in long-clothes past the age to 

walk. 
Ah well, I know you men judge other- 
wise ! 
You think a woman ripens as a peach, 
In the cheeks, chiefly. Pass it to me 

now ; 
I'm young in age, and younger still, I 

think. 
As a woman. Cut a child may say 

amen 
To a bishop's prayer and feel the way it 

goes; 
And I, incapable to loose the knot 



Al/J^OI^A LEIGB. 



01 social questions, can approve, applaud 
August compassion, christian thoughts 

that shoot 
Beyond the vulgar white of personal 

aims. 
Accept my reverence. ' 

There he glowed on me 
With all his face and eyes. ' No other 

_ help?' 
Said he — 'no more than so?' 

'What help?' I asked, 
' You'd scorn my help, — as Nature's self, 

you say, 
Has scorned to put her music in my 

mouth 
Because a woman's. Do you now turn 

round 
And ask for what a woman cannot give?' 

' For what she only can,' I turn and ask. 
He answered, catching up my hands in 

his, 
And dropping on me from his high-eaved 

brow 
The full weight of his soul, — ' I ask for 

love. 
And that, she can ; for life in fellowship 
Through bitter duties — that, I know she 

can ; 
For wifehood . . will she ? ' 

' Now,' I said, ' may God 
Be witness 'twixt us two ! ' and with the 

word, 
Meseemed I floated into a sudden light 
Above his stature, — "am I proved too 

weak 
To stand alone, yet strong enough to 

bear 
Such leaners on my shoulder? poor to 

think. 
Yet rich enough to sympathise with 

thought? 
Incompetent to sing, as blackbirds can, 
Yet competent to love, like him ? ' 

I paused : 
Perhaps I darkened, as the light house 

will 
That turns upon the sea. ' It's always 

so ! 
Anything does for a wife.' 

'Aurora, dear. 
And dearly honored' . . he pressed in 

at once 
With eager utterance, — 'you translate 

me lU. 



I do not contradict my thought of you 
Which is most reverent, with another 

thought 
Found less so. If your sex is weak for 

art, 
(And I who said so, did but honour you 
By using truth in courtship) it is strong 
For life and duty. Place your fecund 

heart 
In mine, and let us blossom for the world 
That wants love's colour in the grey of 

time. 
My talk, meanwhile, is arid lo you, ay. 
Since all my talk can only set you where 
You look down coldly on the arena- 
heaps 
Of headless bodies, shapeless, indistinct ! 
The Judgment- Angel scarce would find 

his way 
Through such a heap of generalised dis- 
tress 
To the individual man with lips and 

eyes — 
Much less Aurora. Ah my sweet, come 

down. 
And hand in hand we'll go where yours 

shall touch 
These victims, one by one ! till one byA 

one. 
The formless, nameless trunk of every ; 

man 
Shall seem to wear a head with hair you \ 

know. 
And every woman catch your mother's; 

face 
To melt you into passion.' 

' I am a girl,' 
I answered slowly : ' you do well to namci 
My mother's face. Though far too ear- 
ly, alas. 
God's hand did interpose 'twixt it andJ 

me, 

I know so much of love, as used lo shine! 
In that face and another. Just so much ; 
No more indeed at all. I have not seer 
So much love since, I pray you pardor 

me. 
As answers even to make a marriagti 

with 
In this cold land of Englar.d. What yoii 

love. 

Is not a woman, Romney, but a cause: 
You want a helpmate, not a mistress, sii 
A wife to help your ends . . in her ii 

cud ! 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Your cause is noble, your ends excellent, 
But I, being most unworthy of these and 

that, 
Do otherwise conceive of love. Fare- 
well.' 

* Farewell, Aurora ? you reject me thus? ' 
He said. 

' Sir, you were married long ago, 
You have a wife already whom you love, 
Your social theory. Bless you both, 1 

say. 
For my part, I am scarcely meek enough 
To b2 the handmaid of a lawful spouse. 
Do I look a Hagar, think you ? ' 

' So you jest ! ' 

* Nay so, I speak in earnest,' I replied. 

' You treat of marriage too much like, at 

least, 
A chief apostle ; you would bear with 

you 
A wife . . a sister . . shall we speak it 

out? 
A sister of charity,' 

' Tiien, must it oe 
Indeed f.u-ewell ? And was I so far 

wrong 
In hope and in illusion, when I took 
The woman to be nobler thaii the man. 
Yourself the noblest woman, — in the 

use 
And comprehension of what love is, — 

love, 
That generates the likeness of itself 
Through all heroic duties ? so far wrong, 
In saying bluntly, venturing truth on 

love, 
'Come, 4iuman creature, love and work 

with me,' — 
Instead of ' Lady, thou art wondrous 

fair, 
' And, where the Graces walk before, the 

Muse 

* Vill follow at the lighting of the eyes, 
'And where the Muse walks, lovers 

need to creep : 
' Turn round and love me, or I die of 
love.'' • 

With, quiet indignation I broke in. 

' You misconceive the question like a 

man, 
"Who sees a woman as the complement 
Of his sex merely. You forget too much 
That every creature, female as the male, 



Stands single in responsible act and 

thought. 
As also in birth and death. Whoever 

says 
To a loyal woman, ' Love and work with 

me,' 
Will get fair answers if the work and 

love, 
Being good themselves, are good for her 

— the best 
She was born for. Women of a softer 

mood. 
Surprised by men when scarcely awake 

to life. 
Will sometimes only hear the first word, 

love. 
And catch up with it any kind of work, 
Indifferent, so that dear love go with it: 
I do not blame such women, though, for 

love. 
They pick much oakum ; earth's fanatics 

make 
Too frequently heaven's saints. But ine, 

your work 
Is not the best for, — nor your love the 

best. 
Nor able to commend the kind of work 
For love's sake merely. Ah, you force 

me, sir. 
To be over-bold in speaking of myself, 
I too have my vocation. — work to do. 
The heavens and earth have set me, 

since I changed 
My father's face for theirs,-^and, though 

your world 
Were twice as wretched as you represent. 
Most serious work, most necessary work 
As any of the economists'. Reform, 
Make trade a Christian possibility. 
And individual right no general wrong ; 
Wipe out earth's furrows of the Thine 

and IMine, 
And leave one green for men to play at 

bowls ; 
With innings for them all ! . . what then, 

indeed, 
If mortals are not greater by the head 
Than any of their prosperities ? what 

then. 
Unless the artist keep up open roads 
Betwixt the seen and unseen, — bursting 

through 
The best of your conventions with his 

best, 
The sj^eakable, imagmable best 



AURORA LEIGH. 



God bids him speak, to prove what Ues 

beyond 
Both speech and imagination ? A starved 

man 
Exceeds a fat beast; we'll not barter, 

sir. 
The beautiful for barley. — And, even so, 
I hold you will not compass your poor 

ends 
Of barley-feeding and material ease. 
Without a poet's individualism 
To work your universal. It takes a 

soul 
To move a body : it takes a high-souled 

man 
To move the masses . . even to a clean- 
er stye ; 
It takes the ideal, to blow a hair's-breadth 

off 
The dust of the actual. — Ah, your Four- 

iers failed. 
Because not poets enough to understand 
I'hat life develops from within. — For 

me, 
Perhaps I am not worthy, as you say. 
Of work like this . . perhaps a woman's 

soul 
Aspires, and not creates: yet we aspire, 
And yet I'll try out your perhapses, sir ; 
And if I fail . . why, burn me up my 

straw 
Like other false works— I'll not ask for 

grace. 
Your scorn is better, cousin Romney. I 
Who love my art, could never wish it 

lower 
To suit my stature. I may love my art. 
You'll grant that even a woman may love 

art, 
Seeing that to waste true love on any- 
thing 
Is womanly, past question.' 

I retain 
The very last word which 1 said that 

day. 
As you the creaking of the door, years 

past. 
Which let upon you r.uch disabling news 
You ever after have been graver. He, 
His eyes, the motions in his silent mouth, 
Were fiery points on which my words 

were caught. 
Transfixed for ever in my memory 
Flip- his sake, not their own. And yet I 
know 



I did not love him . . nor he me . . that's 

sure . . 
And what 1 said, is unrepented of. 
As truth is always. Yet . . a princely 

man ! — 
If hard to me, heroic for himself! 
He bears down on me through the slant- 
ing years. 
The stronger for the distance. If he 

had loved, 
Ay, loved me, with that retributive 

face, . . 
I might have been a common woman 

now, 
And happier, less known and less left 

alone ; 
Perhaps a better woman after all, — 
With chubby children hanging on my 

neck 
To keep me low and wise. Ah me, the 

vines 
That bear such fruit, are proud to stoop 

with it. 
The palm stands upright in a realm of 

sand. 

And I, who spoke the truth then, stand 

upright. 
Still worthy of having spoken out the 

truth. 
By being content I spoke it, though it set 
Him there, me here. — O woman's vile 

remorse. 
To hanker after a mere name, a show, 
A supposition, a potential love ! 
Does every man who names love in our 

lives. 
Become a power for that ? is love's true 

thing 
So much best to us, that what personates 

love 
Is next best ? A potential love, for- 
sooth ! 
I'm not so vile. No, no- he cleaves, I 

think. 
This man, this image, . . chiefly for the 

wrong 
And shock he gave my life, in finding me 
Precisely where the devil of my youth 
Had set me, on those mountain-peaks of 

hope 
All glittering with the dawn-dew, a'.l 

erect 
And famished for the nof)n, — exclaiming, 

while 



AURORA LEIGH. 



33 



I looked for empire and much tribute, 

' Com*, 
I have some worthy work for thee be- 
low. 
Come, sweep my barns and keep my 

hospitals, 
And I will pay thee with a current coin 
Which men give women.' 

As we spoke, the grass 
Was trod in haste beside us, and my 

aunt, 
With smile distorted by the sun, — face, 

voice, 
As much at issue with the summer-day 
As if you brought a candle out of doors. 
Broke in with, ' Romney, here ! — My 

child, entreat 
Vour cousin to the house, and have your 

talk, 
Jf girls must talk upon their birthdays. 

Come.' 

He answered for me calmly, with pale 

lips 
That seemed to motion for a smile in 

vain. 
* The talk is ended, madam, where we 

stand. 
Your brother's daughter hns dismissed 

me here ; 
And all my answer can be better said 
Beneath the trees, than wrong by such a 

word 
Your house's hospitalities. Farewell.' 

With that he vanished, I could hear 
his heel 

Ring bluntly in the lane, as down he 
leapt 

The short way from us. — Then a meas- 
ured speech 

Withdrew me. ' What means this, Au- 
rora Leigh? 

My brother's daughter has dismissed my 
guests ? ' 

The lion in me felt the keeper's voice, 
Through all its quivering dewlaps : I was 

quelled 
Before her,— meekened to the child she 

knew: 
I prayed her pardon, said, ' I had little 

thought 
To give dismissal to a guest of hers, 
In letting go a friend of mine who came 



To take me into service as a wife, — 
No more than that, indeed.' 

' No more, no more ? 
Pray Heaven,' she answered, ' that I wa« 

not mad. 
I could not mean to tell her to her face 
That Romney Leigh had asked me for a 

wife. 
And I refused him ? ' 

' Did he ask ? ' I said ; 
' I think he rather stooped to take me up 
For certain uses which he found to do 
For something called a wife. He never 

asked.' 

'What stuff!' she answered; 'are they 

queens, these girls? 
They must have mantles, stitched with 

twenty silks. 
Spread out upon the ground, before 

they'll step 
One footstep for the noblest lover born.' 

' But I am born,' I said with firmness, 

'I, 
To walk another way than his, dear 

aunt.' 

' You walk, you walk ! A babe at thir- 
teen months 

Will walk as well as you,' she cried in 
haste, 

' Without a steadying finger. Why, you 
child, 

God help you, you are groping in the 
dark, 

For all this sunlight. You suppose, per- 
haps. 

That you, sole offspring of an opulent 
man. 

Are rich and free to choose a way to 
walk ? 

You think, and it's a reasonable thought. 

That I beside, being well to do in life. 

Will leave my handful in my niece's 
hand 

When death shall paralyse these fingers? 
Pray, 

Pray, child, — albeit, I know you love me 
not, 

As if you loved me, that I may not die ! 

For when I die and leave you, out you 

'-go. 
(Unless I make room for you in my 
grave) 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Unhoused, unfed, my dear, poor broth- 
er's lamb, 
(Ah heaven,— that pains !)— without a 

right to crop 
A single blade of grass beneath these 
trees, 

Or cast a lamb's small shadow on the 
lawn, 

Unfed, unfolded ! Ah, my brother, 
here's 

The fruit you planted in your foreign 
loves ! — 

Ay, there's the fruit he planted ! never 
look 

Astonished at me with your mother's 
eyes. 

For it was they who set you where you 
are, 

An undowered orphan. Child, your 
father's choice 

Of that said mother, disinherited 

His daughter, his and hers. Men do 
not think 

Of sons and daughters, when they fall in 
love, 

So much more than of sisters; other- 
wise 

He would have paused to ponder what 
he did. 

And sh) unk before that clause in the en- 
tail 

Excluding offspring by a foreign wife 

(The clause set up a hundred years ago 

By a Leigh who wedded a French danc- 
ing-girl 

And had his heart danced over in re- 
turn) 

But this man shrank at nothing, never 
thought 

Of you, Aurora, any more than me — 

Your mother must have been a pretty 
thing, 

For all the coarse Italian blacks and 
browns, 

To make a good man, which my brother 
was, 

Unchary of the duties to his house ; 

But so it fell indeed. Our cousin Vane, 

Vane Leigh, the father of this Roinney, 
wrote 

Directly on your birth, to Italy, 

' I ask your baby daughter for my son 

In whom the entail now merges by the 
law. 

Betroth her to us out of love, instead 



Of colder reasons, and she shall not lose 
By love or law from henceforth ' — so he 

wrote ; 
A generous cousin, was my cousin Vane. 
Remember how he drew you to his knee 
The year you came here, just before he 

died, 
And hollowed out his hands to hold your 

cheeks, 
And wished them redder, — you remem- 
ber Vane ? 
And now his son who represents our 

house 
And holds the fiefs and manors in his 

place. 
To whom reverts my pittance when I 

die, 
(Except a few books and a pair of 

shawls) 
The boy is generous like him, and pre- 
pared 
To carry out his kindest word and 

thought 
To you, Aurora. Yes, a fine young 

man 
Is Roinney Leigh ; although the sun of 

youth 
Has shone too straight upon his brain, I 

know. 
And fevered him with dreams of doing 

good 
To good-for-nothing people. But wife 
Will put all right, and stroke his temples 

cool 
With healthy touches ' . . 

I broke in at that. 
I could not lift my heavy heart to breathe 
Till then, but then I raised it, and it fell 
In broken words like these — ' No need 

to wait. 
The dream of doing good to . . me, at 

least, 
Is ended, without waiting for a wife 
To cool the fever for him. We've escap- 
ed 
That danger . . thank Heaven for it.' 

' You,' she cried. 
' Have got a fever. What, I talk and 

talk 
An hour long to you, — I instruct you 

how 
You cannot eat or drink or stand or sit. 
Or even die, like anv decent wretch 
In all this unroofed and unfurnished 

world, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



35 



Without your cousin, — and you still 

maintain 
There's room 'twixt hinl and you, for 

flirting fans 
And running knots in eyebrows ! You 

must have 
A pattern lover sighing on his knee : 
You do not count enough a noble heart, 
Above book-patterns, which this very 

morn 
Unclosed itself in two dear fathers' 

names 
To embrace your orphaned life ! fie, fie ! 

But stay, 
I write a word, and counteract this sin.' 

She would have turned to leave me, but 

I clung. 
' O sweet my father's sister, hear my 

word 
Before you write yours. Cousin Vane 

did well, 
And cousin Romney well, — and I well 

too. 
In casting back with all my strength and 

will 
The good they meant me. O my God, 

my God ! 
God meant me good, too, when he hin- 
dered me 
From saying ' yes ' this morning. If you 

write 
A word, it shall be 'no.' I say no, no ! 
I tie up ' no ' upon His altar-horns, 
Quite out of reach of perjury ! At least 
My soul is not a pauper ; I can live 
At least my soul's life, without alms from 

men ; 
And if it must be in heaven instead of 

earth, 
Let heaven look to it, — I am not afraid.' 

She seized my hands with both hers, 

strained them fast. 
And drew her probing and unscrupulous 

eyes 
Right through me, body and heart. ' Yet, 

foolish Sweet, 
You love this man. I have watched you 

when he came, 
And when he went, and when we've 

talked of him ; 
I am not old for nothing ; I can tell 
The weather-signs of love — you love this 

man.' 



Girls blush sometimes because they are 

alive, 
Half wishing they were dead to save the 

shame. 
The sudden blush devours them, neck 

and brow ; 
They have drawn too near the fire of life, 

like gnats. 
And flare up bodily, wings and all. What 

then ? 
Who's sorry for a gnat . . or girl? 

I blushed. 
I feel the brand upon my forehead now 
Strike hot, sear deep, as guiltless men 

may feel 
The felon's iron, say, and scorn the 

mark 
Of what they are not. Most illogical 
Irrational nature of our womanhood. 
That blushes one way, feels another 

way, 
And prays, perhaps, another ! After all, 
We cannot be the equal of the male. 
Who rules his blood a little. 

For although 
I blushed indeed, as if I loved the man. 
And her incisive smile, accrediting 
That treason of false witness in my 

blush, 
Did bow me downward like a swathe of 

grass 
Below its level that struck me, — I attest 
The conscious skies and all their daily 

suns, 
I think I loved him not . . nor then, 

nor since . . 
Nor ever. Do we love the schoolmas- 
ter. 
Being busy in the woods ? much less, 

being poor, 
The overseer of the parish? Do we 

keep 
Our love to pay out debts with? 

White and cold 
I grew next moment. As my blood re- 
coiled 
From that imputed ignomy, I made 
My heart great with it. Then, at last, I 

spoke. 
Spoke veritable words but passionate. 
Too passionate perhaps . . ground up 

with sobs 
To shapeless endings. She let fall my 
hands, 



36 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And took her smile ofif, in sedate dis- 
gust, 
As peradventure she had touched a 

snake, — 
A dead snake, mind !— and, turning 

round, replied, 
* We'll leave Italian manners, if you 

please. 
I think you had an English father, child, 
And ought to find it possible to speak 
A quiet ' yes ' or ' no,' like English girls. 
Without convulsions. In another month 
We'll take another answer . . no, or 

yes.' 
With that, she left me in the garden- 
walk. 

I had a father ! yes, but long ago — 

How long it seemed that moment. Oh, 
how far. 

How far and safe, God, dost thou keep 
thy saints 

When once gone from us ! We may call 
against 

The lighted windows of thy fair June- 
heaven 

Where all the souls are happy, — and not 
one. 

Not even my father, look from work or 
play 

To ask, ' Who is it that cries after us. 

Below there, in the dusk ?' Yet former- 
ly 

He turned his face upon jne quick 
enough. 

If I said 'father.' Now I might cry 
loud; 

The little lark reached higher with his 
song 

Than I with crying. Oh, alone, alone, — 

Not troubling any in heaven, nor any on 
earth, 

I stood there in the garden, and looked 
up 

The deaf blue sky that brings the roses 
out 

On such June mornings. 

You who keep account 

Of crisis and transition in this life. 

Set down the first time Nature says 
plain ' no ' 

To some ' yes ' in you, and walks over 
you 

In gorgeous sweeps of scorn. We all be- 
gin 



By singing with the birds and running 

fast 
With June-days, hand in hand • but once, 

for all. 
The birds must sing against us, and the 

sua 
Strike down upon us like a friend's 

sword caught 
By an enemy to slay us, while we read 
The dear name on the blade which bites 

at us ! — 
That's bitter and convincing : after that. 
We seldom doubt that something in the 

large 
Smooth order of creation, though no 

more 
Than haply a man's footstep, has gone 

wrong. 

Some tears fell down my cheeks, and 

then I smiled, 
As those smile who have no face in tlie 

world 
To smile back to them. I had lost a 

friend 
In Romney Leigh ; the thing was sure — 

a friend, 
Who had looked at me most gently now 

and then, 
And spoken of my favourite books . . 

' our books ' . . 
With such a voice ! Well, voice and 

look were now 
More utterly shut out from me, I felt, 
Than even my father's. Romney now 

\m% turned 
To a benefactor, to a generous man. 
Who had tied himself to marry . . me, 

instead 
Of such a woman, with low timorous lids 
He lifted with a sudden word one day. 
And left, perhaps, for my sake. — Ah, 

self- tied 
By a contract, — male Iphigenia bound 
At a fatal Aulis for the winds to change, 
(But loose him — they'll not change;) he 

well might seem 
A little cold and dominant in love 1 
He had a right to be dogmatical, 
This poor, good Romney. Love, to liim, 

was made 
A simple law-clause. If I married liim, 
I would not dare to call my soul my own. 
Which so he had bought and paid for: 
every thought 



'AURORA LEIGH. 



37 



And every heart-beat down there in the 

bill, 
Not one found honestly deductible 
From any use that pleased him ! He 

might cut 
My body into coins to give away 
Among his other paupers ; change my 

sons, 
While I stood dumb as Griseld, for black 

babes 
Or piteous foundlings ; might unques- 
tioned set 
My right hand teaching in the Ragged 

Schools, 
My left hand washing in the Public 

Baths, 
What time my angel of the Ideal 

stretched 
Both his to me in vain ! I could not 

claim 
The poor right of a mouse in a trap, to 

squeal. 
And take so much as pity from myself. 

Farewell, good Romney ! if I loved you 

even, 
I could but ill afford to let you be 
So generous to me. Farewell, friend, 

since friend 
Betwixt us two, forsooth, must be a 

word 
So heavily overladen. And, since help 
Must come to me from those who love 

me not. 
Farewell, all helpers— I must help my- 
self. 
And am alone from henceforth. — Then I 

stooped. 
And lifted the soiled garland from the 

earth, 
And set it on my head as bitterly 
As when the Spanish monarch crowned 

the bones 
Of his dead love. So be it. I preserve 
That crown still, — in the drawer there ! 

'twas the first ; 
The rest are like it ;— those Olympian 

crowns, 
We run for, till we lose sight of the sun 
In the dust of the racing chariots ! 

After that. 
Before the evening fell, I had a note 
Which ran, — ' Aurora, sweet Chaldean, 
you read 



My meaning backward like your eastern 
books. 

While I am from the west, dear. Read 
me now 

A little plainer. Did you hate me quite 

But yesterday? I loved you for my part ; 

I love you. If I spoke untenderly 

This morning, my beloved, pardon it; 

And comprehend me that I love you so 

I set you on the level of my soul. 

And overvvashed you with the bitter 
brine 

Of some habitual thoughts. Henceforth, 
my flower. 

Be planted out of reach of any such. 

And lean the side you please, with all 
your leaves ! 

Write woman's verses and dream wo- 
man's dreams ; 

But let me feel your perfume in my 
home. 

To make my sabbath after working- 
days ; 

Bloom out your youth beside me, — be my 
wife.' 

I wrote in answer — ' We, Chaldeans, dis- 
cern 
Still farther than we read. I know your 

heart. 
And shut it like the holy book it is, 
Reserved for mild-eyed saints to pore 

upon 
Betwixt their prayers at vespers. Well, 

you're right, 
I did not surely hate you yesterday ; 
And yet I do not love you enough to- 
day 
To wed you, cousin Romney. Take this 

word. 
And let it stop you as a generous man 
Frcrn speaking farther. You may tease, 

indeed. 
And blow about my feelings, or my 

leaves, — 
And here's my aunt will help you with 

east winds. 
And break a stalk, perhaps, tormenting 

me : 
But certain flowers grow near as deep as 

trees. 
And, cousin, you'll not move my root, 

not you. 
With all your confluent storms. Then 

let me grow 



3« 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Within my wayside hedge, and pass your 
way ! 

This flower has never as much to say to 
you 

As the antique tomb which said to trav- 
ellers, ' Pause, 

' Siste, viator.' ' Ending thus, I signed. 

The next week passed in silence, so the 

next. 
And several after : Romney did not 

come, 
Nor my aunt chide me. I lived on and 

on, 
As if my heart were kept beneath a 

glass; 
And everybody stood, all eyes and ears. 
To see and iiear it tick. I could not sit. 
Nor walk, nor take a book, nor lay it 

down. 
Not sew on steadily, nor drop a stitch 
And a sigh with it, but I felt her looks 
,Still cleaving to me, like the sucking 

asp 
To Cleopatra's breast, persistently 
Through the intermittent pantings. Be- 
ing observed. 
When observation is not sympathy. 
Is just being tortured. If she said a 

word, 
A ' thank you,' or an ' if it please you, 

dear,' 
She meant a commination, or, at best, 
An exorcism against the devildom 
Which plainly held me. So with all the 

house. 
Susannah could not stand and twist my 

hair. 
Without such glancing at the looking- 
glass 
To see my face there, that she missed 

the plait. 
And John,— I never sent my plate for 

soup. 
Or did not send it, but the foolish Jolm 
Resolved the problem, 'twixt his nap- 

kined thunibs, 
Of what was signified by taking soup 
Or choosing mackerel. Neighbors who 

dropped in 
On morning visits, feeling a joint wrong, 
Smiled admonition, sate uneasily. 
And talked with measured, emphasised 

reserve, 
Of parish news, like doctors to the sick, 



When not called in, — as if, with leave to 

speak. 
They might say something. Nay, the 

very dog 
Would watch me from his sun patch on 

the floor. 
In alternation with the large black fly 
Not yet in reach of snapping. So I 

lived. 

A Roman died so : smeared with honey, 

teased 
By insects, stared to torture by the 

noon : 
And many patient souls 'neath English 

roofs 
Have died like Romans. I, in looking 

back. 
Wish only, now, I had borne the plague 

of all 
With meeker spirits than were rife in 

Rome. 

For, on the sixth week, the dead sea 

broke up, 
Dashed suddenly through beneath the 

heel of Him 
Who stands upon the sea and earth, and 

swears 
Time shall be nevermore. The clock 

struck nine 
That morning too— no lark was out of 

tune ; 
The hidden farms among the hills breath- 
ed straight 
Their smoke toward the heaven : the 

lime-tree scarcely stirred 
Beneath the blue weight of the cloudless 

sky, 
Though still the July air came floating 

through 
The woodbine at my window, in and 

out, 
With touches of the out-door country- 
news 
For a bending forehead. There I sate, 

and wished 
That_ morning-'truce of God would last 

till eve, 
Or longer. ' Sleep,' I thought, ' late 

sleepers,— sleep. 
And spare me yet the burden of your 

eyes.' 

Then, suddenly, a single ghastly shriek 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Tore upwards from the bottom of the 
house. 

Like one who wakens in a grav3 and 
shrieks, 

The still house seemed to shriek itself 
alive, 

And shudder through its passages and 
stairs 

With slam of doors and clash of bells. — I 
sprang, 

I stood up in the middle of the room. 

And there confronted at my chamber- 
door, 

A white face, — shivering, ineffectual lips. 

'Come, come,' they tried to utter, and I 

went ; 
As if a ghost had drawn me at the point 
Of a fiery finger through the uneven dark, 
I went with reeling footsteps down the 

stair, 
Nor asked a question. 

There she sate, my aunt, — 
Bolt upright in the chair beside her bed, 
Whose pillow had no dint ! She had 

used no bed 
For that night's sleeping . . yet slept 

well. My God, 
The dumb derision of that grey, peaked 

face 
Concluded something grave against the 

sun, 
Which filled the chamber with its July 

burst 
When Susan drew the curtains, ignorant 
Of who sate open-eyed behind her. 

There 
She sate . . it sate . . we said ' she ' 

yesterday . . 
And held a letter with unbroken seal 
As Susan gave it to her hand last night : 
All night she had held it. If its news re- 
ferred 
To d>uchies or to dunghills, not an inch 
She'd budge, 'twas obvious, for such 

worthless odds, 
Nor, though the stars were suns and 

overburned 
Their spheric limitations, swallowing up 
Like wax the azure spaces, could they 

force 
Those open eyes to wink once. What 

last sight 
Had left them blank and flat so, — draw- 
ing out 



The faculty of vision from the roots. 
As nothing more, worth seeing, remained 
behind ? 

Were those the eyes that watched me, 

worried me ? 
That dogged me up and down the hours 

and days, 
A beaten, breathless, miserable soul? 
And did I pray, a half hour back, but so, 
To escape the burden of those eyes . . 

those eyes ? 
* Sleep late,' I said. — 

Why now, indeed, they sleep. 
God answers sharp and sudden on some 

prayers. 
And thrusts the thing we have prayed for 

in our face, 
A gauntlet with a gift in't. Every wish 
Is like a prayer . . with God. 

I had my wish. 
To read and meditate the thing I would. 
To fashion all my life upon my thought. 
And marry or not marry. Henceforth, 

none 
Could disapprove me, vex me, hamper 

me. 
Full ground-room, in this desert newly 

made. 
For Babylon or Balbec, — when the 

breath. 
Now choked with sand, returns for build- 
ing towns. 

The heir came over on the funeral day, 
And we two cousins met before the dead. 
With two pale faces. Was it death or 

life 
That moved us? When the will was 

read and done. 
The official guest and witnesses with- 
drawn. 
We rose up in a silence almost hard. 
And looked at one another. Then I 

said, 
' Farewell, my cousin.' 

But he touched, just touched 
My hatstrings tied for going, (at the 

door 
The carriage stood to take me) and said 

low, 
His voice a little unsteady through his 

smile, 
' Siste, viator.' 

' Is there time,' I asked, 



40 



AURORA LEIGH. 



* In these last days of railroads, to stop 

short 
Like Caesar's chariot (weighing half a 

ton) 
On the Appian road for morals ? ' 

' There is time,' 
He answered grave, ' for necessary 

words. 
Inclusive, trust me, of no epitaph 
On man or act, my cousin. We have 

read 
A will, which gives you all the personal 

goods 
And funded monies of your aunt.' 

' I thank 
Her memory for it. With three hundred 

pounds 
We buy in England even, clear standing- 
room 
To stand and work in. Only two liours 

since, 
I fancied I was poor.' 

' And cousin, still 
You're richer than you fancy. The will 

says, 
Three hundred pouttds., a^id any other 

SUtit 

Of which the said testatrix dies pos- 
sessed. 
I say she died possessed of other sums.' 



' Dear Romney, need we chronicle the 
pence.'' 

I'm richer than I thought — that's evi- 
dent. 

Enough so.' 

' Listen rather. You've to do 

With business and a cousin,' lie resum- 
ed, 

' And both, I fear, need patience. Here's 
the fact. 

The other sum (there is another sum, 

Unspecified in any will wliich dates 

After possession, yet bequeathed as 
much 

And clearly as those said tiiree hundred 
pounds) 

Is thirty thousand. You will have it 
paid 

When? where? My duty troubles you 
with words.' 

He struck the iron when the bar was 
hot : 



No wonder if my eyes sent out some 
sparks. 

' Pause there ! I thank you. You are 
delicate 

In glosing gifts ; — but I, who share your 
blood, 

Am rather made for giving, like your- 
self, 

Than taking, like your pensioners. Fare- 
well.' 

He stopped me with a gesture of calm 
pride. 

'A Leigh,' he said, 'gives largesse and 
gives love. 

But gloses never : if a Leigh could glosc. 

He would not do it, moreover, to a 
.. Leigh, 

With blood trained up along nine centu- 
ries 

To hound and hate a lie from eyes like 
yours. 

And now we'll make the rest as clear ; 
your aunt 

Possessed these monies.' 

' You will make it clear. 

My cousin, as the honour of us both, 

Or one of us speaks vainly — that's not I. 

My aunt jiossesed this sum, — inherited 

From whom, and when ? bring documents, 
prove dates.' 

' Why now indeed you throw your bon- 
net off, 

As if you had time left for a logarithm ! 

The faith's the want. Dear cousin, give 
me faith, 

And you shall walk this road with silken 
shoes. 

As clean as any lady of our house 

Supposed the proudest. Oh, 1 compre- 
hend 

The whole position from your point of 
sight. 

I oust you from your father's halls and 
lands, 

And make you poor by getting rich — 
that's law ; 

Considering which, in common circum- 
stance, 

You would not scruple to accept from nie 

Some compensation, some sufficiency 

Of income — that were justice ; but alas, 

I love you . . that's mere nature ; you 
reject 



AURORA LEIGH. 



My love . . that's nature also ; and at 

once, 
You cannot, from a suitor disallowed, 
A hand thrown back as mine is, into 

yours 
Receive a doit, a farthing, . . not foi ihe 

world ! 
That's woman's etiquette, and obviously 
Exceeds the claim of nature, law, and 

right. 
Unanswerable to all. I grant, you see. 
The case as you conceive it, — leave you 

room 
To sweep your ample skirts of woman- 
hood ; 
While, standing humbly squeezed against 

the wall, 
I own myself excluded from being just. 
Restrained from paving indubitable 

debts, 
Because denied from giving you my 

soul — 
That's my misfortune ! — I submit to it 
As if, in some more reasonable age, 
'Twould not be less inevitable. Enough. 
You'll trust me, cousin, as a gentleman. 
To keep your honour, as you count it, 

pure, 
Your scruples Gust as if I thought them 

wise) 
Safe and inviolate from gifts of mine.' 

I answered mild but ^.earnest. ' I 

believe 
In no one's honour which another keeps, 
Nor man's nor woman's. As I keep, 

myself, 
My truth and my religion, I depute 
No father, though I had one this side 

death. 
Nor brother, though I had twenty, much 

less you, 
Though twice my cousin, and once Rom- 

ney Leigh, 
To keep my honour pure. You face, to- 
day, 
A man who wants instruction, mark me, 

not 
A woman who wants protection. As to 

a man. 
Show manhood, speak out plainly, be 

precise 
With facts and dates. My aunt inherited 
This sum, you say — ' 

■ I said she died possessed 



Of this, dear cousin.' 

' Not by heritage. 
Thank you : we're getting to the facts a» 

last. 
Perhaps she played at commerce with a 

ship 
Which came in heavy with Australian 

gold? 
Or touched a lottery with her finger-end, 
Which tumbled on a sudden into her lap 
Some old Rhine tower or principality? 
Perhaps she had to do witli a marine 
Sub-transatlantic railroad, which pre-pays 
As well as presupposes? or perhaps 
Some stale ancestral debt was after-paid 
By a hundred years, and took her by 

surprise ? — 
You shake your head, my cousin ; I guess 

ill.' 

' You need not guess, Aurora, nor de- 
ride, — 

The truth is not afaid of hurting you. 

You'll find no cause, in all your scruples, 
why 

Your aunt should cavil at a deed of gift 

'J'wixt her and me.' 

' I thought so — ah I a gift.' 

' You naturally thought so,' he resumed. 
' A very natural gift.' 

_ ' A gift, a gifi ! 
Her individual life being stranded high 
Above all want, approaching opulence, 
'loo haughty was she to accept a gift 
Without some ultimate aim : ah, ah, I 

see, — • 
A gift intended plainly for her heirs, 
And so accepted . . if accepted . . ah. 
Indeed that might be; I am snared per- 
haps. 
Just so. But, cousin, shall I pardon 

you. 
If thus you have caught me with a cruel 
springe ? ' 

He answered gently, ' Need you tremble 

and pant 
Like a netted lioness? is't my fault, mine. 
That you're a grand wild creature of the 

woods. 
And hate the stall built for you? Any 

way. 
Though triply netted, need you glare at 

me? 



42 



AURORA LEIGH. 



I do not hold the cords of such a net ; 
You're free from me, Aurora 1 ' 

' Now may God 
Deliver me from this strait ! This gift 

of yours 
Was tendered . . when? accepted . . 

when ? ' I asked. 
' A month . . a fortnight since ? S:x 

weeks ago 
It was not tendered. By a word she 

dropped 
I know it was not tendered nor received. 
When was it ? bring your dates.' 

' What matters when ? 
A half-hour ere she died, or a half-year, 
Secured the gift, maintains the heritage 
Inviolable with law. As easy pluck 
The golden stars from heaven's embroi- 
dered stole, 
To pin them on the grey side of this 

earth, 
As make you poor again, thank God.' 

' Not poor 
Nor clean again from henceforth, you 

thank God ? 
Well, sir — I ask you . . I insist at 

need • . 
Vouchsafe the special date, the special 

date.' 

' The day before her death-day,' he re- 
plied, 
' The gift was in her hands. We'll find 

that dped, 
And certify that date to you.- 

As one 
Who has climbed a mountain-height and 

carried up 
His own heart climbing, panting in his 

throat 
With the toil of the ascent, takes breath 

at last, 
Looks back in triumph — so I stood and 

looked : 
Dear cousin Romney, we Have reached 

the top 
Of this steep question, and may rest, I 

think. 
But first. — I pray you pardon, that the 

shock 
And surge of natural feeling and event 
Had made me oblivious of acquainting 

you 
That this, this letter . . unread, mark, — 

still sealed, 



Was found enfolded in the poor dead 
hand: 

That spirit of hers had gone beyond the 
address. 

Which could not find her though you 
wrote it clear. — 

I know your writing, Romney, — recog- 
nise 

The open-hearted A, the liberal sweep 

Of the G. Now listen, — let us under- 
stand ; 

You will not find that famous deed of 
gift. 

Unless you find it in the letter here, 

Which, not being mine, I give you back. 
— Refuse 

To take the letter ? well then — you and 

As writer and as heiress, open it 

Together hy your leave. Exactly so : 

The words in which the noble offering's 

made. 
Are nobler still, my cousin ; and, I own. 
The iproudest and most delicate heart 

alive. 
Distracted from the measure of the gift 
By such a grace in giving, might accept 
Your largesse without thinking any 

more 
Of the burthen of it, than King Solomon 
Considered, when he wore his holy ring 
Charactered over with the ineffable spell, 
How many carats of fine gold made up 
Its money-value. So, Leigh gives to 

Leigh— 
Or rather, might have given, observe ! — 

for that's 
The point we come to. Here's a proof 

of gift, 
But here's no proof, sir, of acceptancy, 
But rather, disproof Death's black dust, 

being blown. 
Infiltrated through every secret fold 
Of this sealed letter by a puff of fate. 
Dried up for ever the fresh-written ink. 
Annulled the gift, disutilised the grace, 
And left these fragments.' 

As I spoke, I tore 
The paper up and down, and down and 

"P 
And crosswise, till it fluttered from my 

hands, 
As lorest-leaves, stripped suddenly and 

rapt 
By a whirlwind on Valdamo, drop again, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



43 



Drop slow, and strew tlie melancholy 
ground 

Before the amazed Iiills . . . why, so, in- 
deed, 

I'm writing like a poet, somewhat large 

In the type of the image,— and exagger- 
ate 

A small thing with a great thing, topping 
it !— 

But then I'm thinking how his eyes look- 
ed . his, 

With what despondent and surprised re- 
Droach ! 

[ think the tears were in them, as he look- 
ed - 

I think the manly mouth just trembled. 
Then 

He broke the silence. 

' I may ask, perhaps. 

Although no stranger . . only Romney 
Leigh, 

iVhich means still leis . . than Vincent 
Carrington 

i'ou plans in going hence, and where you 
.go. 

This cannot be a secret.' 

' All my life 

Is open to you, cousin. I go hence 

To London, to the gathering-place of 
souls, 

To live mine straight out, vocally, in 
books; 

Harmoniously for others, if indeed 

A woman's soul, like man's, be wide 
enough 

To carry the whole octave (that's to 
prove) 

Or, if I fail, still purely by myself. 

Pray God be with me, Romney.' 

' Ah, poor child. 

Who fight against the mother's 'tiring 
hand. 

And choose the headsman's ! May God 
change his world 

For your sake, sweet, and make it mild 
as heaven. 

And juster than I have found you ! ' 

But I paused. 

' And you, my cousin? '— 

T, he said,—' you ask "" 

You care to ask ? Well, girls have curi- 
ous minds, 

And fain would know the end of every- 
thing. 



Of cousins, therefore, with the rest. For 
me, 

Aurora, I've my work : you know my 
work ; 

And having missed this year some per- 
sonal hope, 

I must beware the rather that I miss 

No reasonable duty. While you sing 

Your happy pastorals of the meads and 
trees. 

Bethink you that I go to impress and 
prove 

On stifled brains and deafened ears, stun- 
ned deaf. 

Crushed dull with grief, that nature sings 
itself. 

And needs no mediate poet, lute or voice, 

To make it vocal. While you ask of 
men 

Your audience, I may get their leave 
perhaps 

For hungry orphans to say audibly 

' We're hungry, see,' — for beaten and 
bullied wives 

To hold their unweaned babies up in 
sight, 

Whom orphanage would better ; and for 
all 

To speak and claim their portion . . by 
no means 

Of the soil, . . but of the sweat in till- 
ing it. 

Since this is now-a-days turned privilege. 

To have only God's curse on us, and not 
man's. 

Such work I have for doing, elbow- 
deep 

In social problems,— as you lie your 
rhymes. 

To draw my uses to cohere with needs 

And bring the uneven world back to its 
round ; 

Or, failing so much, fill up, bridge at 
least 

To smoother issues, some abysmal 
cracks 

And fiends of earth, intestine heats have 
made 

To keep men separate,- using story 
shifts 

Of hospitals, almshouses, infant schools, 

And other practical stuff of partial good, 

You lovers of the beautiful and whole, 

Despise by system. ' 

' / despise ? The scorn 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Is yours, my cousin. Poets become such, 
Through scorning nothing. You decry 

them for 
The good of beauty sung and taught by 

them, 
While they respect your practical partial 

good 
As being a part of beauty's self. Adieu ! 
When God helps all the workers for his 

world, 
1'he singers shall have help of Him, not 

last.' 

He smiled as men smile when tiiey will 

not speak 
Because of something bitter in the 

thought ; 
And still I feel his melancholy eyes 
Look judgment on me. It is seven years 

since : 
I know not if 'twas pity or 'twas scorn 
Has made them so far-reachmg : judge 

it ye 
Who have had to do with pity more than 

love. 
And scorn than hatred. I am used, 

since then. 
To other ways, from equal men. But so, 
Even so, we let go hands, my cousin 

and I, 
And, in between us, rushed the torrent- 
world 
To blanch our faces like divided rocks, 
And bar for ever mutual sight and touch 
Except through swirl of spray and all 

that roar. 



THIRD BOOK. 

' To-day thou girdest up thy loins thy- 
self. 

And goest where thou wouklest : pres- 
ently 

Others shall gird thee,' said the Lord, 
' to go 

Where thou would'st not.' He spoke to 
Peter thus, 

To signify the death which he should die 

When crucified head downwards. 

If He spoke 

To Peter then, He speaks to us the 
same ; 

The word suits many different martyr- 
doms, 



And signifies \ multiform of death. 
Although we scarcely die apostles, we. 
And have mislaid the keys of heaven and 
earth. 

For 'tis not in mere death that men die 

most ; 
And, after our first girding of the loins 
In youth's fine linen and fair broidery 
To run up hill and meet the rising sun. 
We are apt to sit tired, patient as a fool. 
While others gird us with the violent 

bands 
Of social figments, feints, and formal- 
isms. 
Reversing our straight nature, lifting up 
Our base needs, keeping down our lofty 

thoughts, 
Head downward on the cross-sticks oi 

the world. 
Yet He can pluck us from that shameful 

cross. 
God, set our feet low and our forehead 

high. 
And show us how a man was made to 

walk ! 

Leave the lamp, Susan, and go to bed. 
The room does very well ; I have to 

write 
Beyond the stroke of midnight. Get 

away ; 
Your steps, for ever buzzing in the room. 
Tease me like gnats. Ah, letters ! throw 

them down 
At once, as I must have them, to be 

sure, 
Whether I bid you never bring me such 
At such an hour, or bid you. No ex- 
cuse. 
You choose to bring them, as I choose '. 

perhaps 
To throw them in the fire. Now get to : 

bed. 
And dream, if possible, I am not cross. 

Why what a pettish, petty thing I grow, — 
A mere, mere woman, — a mere flaccid 

nerve, 
A kerchief left out all night in the rain, 
Turned soft so, — overtasked and over- 
strained 
And overlived in this close London life 1 
And yet I should be stronger. 

Never buni 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Your letters, poor Aurora ! for they stare 

With red seals from the table, saying 
each, 

* Here's something that you know not.' 
Out alas, 

'Tis scarcely that the world's more good 
and wise 

Or even straighter and more conse- 
quent 

Since yesterday at this time— yet, again, 

If but one angel spoke from Ararat, 

I should be very sorry not to hear: 

So open all the letters ! let me read. 

Blanche Ord, the writer in the ' Lady's 
Fan, 

Requests my judgment on . . that, after- 
wards. 

Kate Ward desires the model of m\' 
cloak. 

And signs, ' Elisha to you.' Pringle 
Sharpe 

Presents his work on 'Social Conduct,' 
. craves 

A little money for his pressing-debts . . 

From me, who scarce have money for my 
needs, 

Art's fiery chariot which we journey in 

Being apt to singe our singing-robes to 
holes. 

Although you ask me for my cloak, Kate 
Ward ! 

Here s Rudgely knows it, — editor and 
scribe — 

He's ' forced to marry where his heart is 
not. 

Because the purse lacks where he lost 
his heart.' 

Ah, lost it because no one picked it 

up ! 

That's really loss ! (and passable impu- 
dence ) 

My critic Hammond flatters prettily. 

And wants another volume like the last. 

My critic Belfair wants another book, 

Entirely different, which will sell, (and 
live?) 

A striking book, yet not a startling book, 

The public blames originalities, 

<You must not pump spring-water una- 
wares 

Upon a gracious public, full of nerves — ) 

Good things, not subtle, new yet ortho- 
dox, 

As easy reading as the dog-eared page 

That's fingered by said public fifty years. 



Since first taught spelling by its grand- 
mother. 

And yet a revelation in some sort : 

That's hard, my critic Belfair ! So — 
what next ? 

My critic Stokes objects to abstract 
thoughts ; 

' Call a man, John, a woman, Joan,' says 
he, 

' And do not prate so of humanities :' 

Whereat I call my critic simply Stokes. 

My critic Jobson recommends more 
mirth 

Because a cheerful genius suits the times. 

And all true poets laugh unquenchably 

Like Shakspeare and the gods. That's 
very hard. 

The gods may laugh, and Shakspeare ; 
Dante smiled 

With such a needy lieart on two pale 
lips, 

We cry, ' Weep rather, Dante.' Poems 
are 

Men, if true poems : and who dares ex- 
claim 

At any man's door, ' Here, 'tis under- 
stood 

The thunder fell last week and killed a 
wife, 

And scared a sickly husband — what of 
that? 

Get up, be merry, shout and clap your 
hands. 

Because a cheerful genius suits the 
times — ?' 

None says so to the man, — and why in- 
deed 

Should any to the poem ? A ninth 
seal ; 

The apocalyse is drawing to a close. 

Ha, — tliis from Vincent Carrington, — 
' Dear friend, 

I want good counsel. Will you lend me 
vvings 

To raise me to the subject, in a sketch 

I'll bring to-morrow — may I? at eleven? 

A poet's only born to turn to use ; 

So save you ! for the world . . and Car- 
rington.' 

(Writ after.) ' Have you heard of Rom- 
ney Leigh 

Beyond what's said of him in newspa- 
pers, 

His phalansteries there, his siieeches 
here, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



His pamphlets, pleas, and statements, 

everywhere 
He dropped me, long ago ; but no one 

drops 
A golden apple — though indeed one day 
You hinted that, but jested. Well, at 

least 
You know Lord Howe who sees him . . 

whom he sees 
And yoti see, and I hate to see, — for 

Howe 
Stands high upon the brink of theories. 
Observes the swimmers and cries ' Very 

fine,' 
But keeps dry linen equally, — unlike 
That gallant breaster, Romney. Strange 

it is, 
Such sudden madness seizing a young 

man 
To make earth over again, — while I'm 

content 
To make the pictures. Let me bring 

the sketch. 
A tiptoe Danae, overbold and hot ; 
Both arms aflame to meet her wishing 

Jove 
Halfway, and burn him faster down ; the 

face 
And breasts upturned and straining, the 

loose locks 
All glowing with the anticipated gold. 
Or here's another on the self-same theme. 
She lies here — fiat upon her prison-floor. 
The long hair swathed about her to the 

heel 
Like wet sea-weed . You dimly see her 

through 
The glittering haze of that prodigious 

rain. 
Half blotted out of nature by a love 
As heavy as fate. I'll bring you either 

sketch. 
I think, myself, the second indicates 
More passion.' 

Surely. Self is put away, 
And calm with abdication. She is Jove, 
And no more Danae— greater thus. Per- 
haps 
The painter symbolises unawares 
Two states of the recipient artist-soul 
One, forward, personal, wanting rever- 
ence, 
Because aspiring only. We'll be calm. 
And know that, when indeed our Joves 

come down 



We all turn stiller than we have ever 
been. 

Kind Vincent Carrington. I'll let liini 

come. 
He talks of Florence, — and may say a 

word 
Of something as it chanced seven years 

ago, 
A hedgehog in the path, or a lame bird. 
In those green country walks, in that 

good time, 
When certainly I was-So miserable . . 
I seem to have missed a blessing ever 

since. 

The music soars within the little lark, 

And the lark soars. It is not thus with 
men. 

We do not make our places with our 
strains, — 

Content, while they rise, to remain be- 
hind. 

Alone on earth instead of so in heaven. 

No matter — I bear on my broken tale. 

When Romney Leigh and I had parted 

thus, 
I took a chamber up three flights of 

stairs 
Not far from being as steep as some larks 

climb. 
And there in a certain house in Kensing- 
ton, 
Three years I lived and worked. Get 

leave to work 
In this world,— 'tis the best vou get at 

all; _ _ ' 

For God, in cursing, gives us better gifts 
Than men in benediction. God says, 

' Sweat 
For foreheads ' men say ' crowns ; and 

so we are crowned, — 
Ay, gashed by some tormenting circle of 

steel 
Which snaps with a secret spring Get 

work ; get work ; 
Be sure 'tis better than what you work 

to get. 

Serene and unafraid of solitude 
I worked the short days out, — and watch- 
ed the sun 
On lurid morns or monstrous afternoons 
Like some Druidic idol's fiery brass 



AURORA LEIGH. 



47 



Witli fixed unflickering outline of dead 

heat, 
From which the blood of wretches pent 

inside 
Seems oozing forth to incarnadine the 

air, 
Push out through fog with his dilated 

disk, 
And startle the slant roofs and chimney- 
pots 
With splashes of fierce colour. Or I 

saw 
Fog only, the great tawny weltering fog, 
Involve the passive city, strangle it 
Alive, and draw it off into the void, 
Spires, bridges, streets, and squares, as 

if a sponge 
Had wiped out London, — or as noon and 

night 
Had clapped together and utterly struck 

out 
The intermediate time, undoing them- 
selves 
In the act. Your city poets see such 

things 
Not despicable. Mountains of the 

south. 
When, drunk and mad with elementrJ 

wines 
They rend the seamless mist and stand 

up bare, 
Make fewer singers, haply. No one 

sings, 
Descending Sinai ; on Parnassus-mount 
You take a mule to climb and not a muse. 
Except in fable and figure : forests chant 
Their anthems to themselves, and leave 

you dumb. 
But sit in London at the day's decline, 
And view the city perish in the mist 
Like Pharaoh's armaments in the deep 

Red Sea, 
The chariots, horsemen, footmen, ail the 

host. 
Sucked down and choked to silence — 

then, surprised 
By a sudden sense of vision and of tune, 
You feel as conquerors though you did 

not fight. 
And you and Israel's other singing-girls, 
Ay, Miriam with them, sing the song you 

choose. 

I worked with patience which means al- 
most power. 



I did some excellent things indifferently, 
Some bad things excellently. Both were 

praised, 
The latter loudest. And by such a time 
Tliat I myself had set them down as sins 
Scarce worth the price of sackcloth, week 

by week 
Arrived some letter through the sedulous 

post, 
Like these I've read, and yet dissimiliar, 
With pretty maiden seals, — initials 

twined 
Of lilies, or a heart marked Emily, 
(Convicting Emily of being all heart;) 
Or rarer tokens from young bachelor.s, 
Who wrote from college with the same 

goosequill. 
Suppose, they had just been plucked of, 

and a snatch 
From Horace, ' Co'legisse juvat,' set 
Upon the first page. Many a letter 

signed 
Or unsigned, showing the writers at 

eighteen 
Had lived too long, although a muse 

should help 
Their dawn by holding candles, — com- 
pliments. 
To smile or sigh at. Such could pass 

with me 
ISio more than coins from Moscow cir- 
culate 
At Paris. Would ten roubles buy a tag 
Of ribbon on the boulevard, worth a 

sou ? 
I smiled that all this youth should love 

me, — sighed 
That such a love could scarcely raise them 

up 
To love what was more worthy than my- 
self; 
Then sighed again, again, less gener- 
ously, 
To think the verj; love they lavished so, 
Proved me inferior. The strong loved 

me not. 
And he . . my cousin Romney . . did 

not write. 
I felt the silent finger of his scorn 
Prick every bubble of my frivolous fame 
As my breath blew it, and resolve it back 
To the air it came from. Oh, I justified 
The measure he had taken of my height : 
The thing was plain— he was not wrong 
a Une ; 



AURORA LEIGH. 



I played at art, made thrusts with a toy- 
sword, 
Amused the lads and maidens. 

Came a sigh 
Deep, hoarse with resolution, — I would 

work 
To better ends, or play in earnest. 

' Heavens, 
1 think I should be almost popular 
If this went on ! ' — I ripped my verses 

up. 
And found no blood upon the rapier's 

point ; 
The heart in them was just an embryo's 

heart 
Which never yet had beat, that it should 

die; 
Just gasps of make-believe galvanic life ; 
Mere tones, inorganised to any tune. 

And yet I felt it in me where it burnt, 
Like those hot fire-seeds of creation held 
In Jove's clenched palm before the 

worlds were sown, — 
But 1 —I was not Juno even ! my hand 
Was shut in weak convulsion, woman's 

ill, 
And when I yearned to lose a finger — lo, 
The nerve revolted, 'Tis the same even 

now : 
This hand may never, haply, open large, 
Before the spark is quenched, or the 

palm charred, 
To prove the power not else than by the 

pain. 

It burns, it burnt — my wliole life burnt 
with it, 

And light, not sunlight and not torch- 
light, flashed 

My steps out through the slow and diffi- 
cult road. 

I had grown distrustful of too forward 
Springs, 

The season's books in drear significance 

Of morals, dropping round me. Lively 
books? 

The ash has livelier verdure than the 
yew ; 

And yet the yew's green longer, and 
alone 

Found worthy of the holy Christmas 
time. 

We'll plant more yews if possible, albeit 

We plant the graveyards with tlicni. 



Day and night 
I worked my rhythmic thought, and fur- 
rowed up 
Both watch and slumber with long lines 

of life 
Which did not suit their season. The 

rose fell 
From either cheek, my eyes globed lumi- 
nous 
Through orbits of blue shadow, and my 

pulse 
Would shudder along the purple-veined 

wrist 
Like a shot bird. Youth's stern, set face 

to face 
With youth's ideal : and when people 

came 
Ai'.d said, ' You work too much, you are 

looking ill,' 
I smiled for pity of them who pitied me, 
And thought I should be better soon 

perhaps 
For those ill looks. Observe—' I.' 

means in youth 
Just / . . the conscious and eternal soul 
With all its ends, — and not the outside 

life. 
The parcel-man, the doublet of the flesh, 
The so much liver, lung, integument. 
Which make the sum of ' I ' hereafter 

when 
World- talkers talk of doing well or ill. 
/ prosper, if I gain a step, although 
A nail then pierced my foot : although 

my brain 
Embracing any truth froze paralysed, 
/ prosper. I but change my instrument : 
I break the spade off, digging deep for 

gold. 
And catch the mattock up. 

I worked on. on. 

Through all the bristling fence of nights 
and days 

Which hedges time in from the eterni- 
ties, 

I struggled, . . never stopped to note 
the stakes 

Which hurt me in my course. The mid- 
night oil 

Would stink sometimes there came 
some vulgar needs : 

I had to live that therefore I might work, 

And, being but poor, I was constrained, 
for life, 



i 



AURORA LEIGH. 



49 



To work with one hand for the book- 
sellers 
While working with the other for my- 
self 
And art. You swim with feet as well as 

hands, 
Or make small way. I apprehended 

this,— 
In England, no one lives by verse that 

hves ; 
And, apprehending, I resolved by prose 
To make a space to sphere my living 

verse. 
I wrote for cyclopaedias, magazines, 
And weekly papers, holding up my name 
To keep it from the mud. I learnt the 

use 
Of the editorial ' we ' in a review. 
As courtly ladies the fine trick of trains, 
And swept it grandly through the open 

doors 
As if one could not pass through doors 

at all 
Save so encumbered. I wrote tales be- 
side. 
Carved many an article on cherry-stones 
To suit light readers, — something in the 

lines 
Revealing, it was said, the mallet-hand, 
But that, I'll never vouch for. What 

you do 
For bread, will taste of common grain, 

not grapes. 
Although you have a vineyard in Cham- 



pagne, 
ch 



Much less in Nephelococcygia, 
As mine was, peradventure. 

Having bread 
For just so many days, just breathing 

room 
For body and verse, I stood up straight 

and worked 
My veritable work. And as the soul 
Which grows within a child makes the 

child grow, — 
Or as the fiery sap, the touch from 

God, 
Careering through a tree, dilates the 

bark 
And roughs with scale and knob, before 

it strikes 
The summer foliage out in a green 

flame — 
So life, in deepening with me, deepened 

all 



The course I took, the work I did. In- 
deed 
The academic law convinced of sin ; 
The critics cried out on the falling off, 
Regretting the first manner. But I felt 
My heart's life throbbing in my verse to 

show 
It lived, it also — certes incomplete. 
Disordered with all Adam in the blood. 
But even its very tumors, warts, and 

wens. 
Still organised by and implying life. 

A lady called upon me on such a day. 
She had the low voice of your English 

dames. 
Unused, it seems, to need rise half a 

note 
To catch attention, — and their quiet 

mood. 
As if they lived too high above the earth 
For that to put them out in anything : 
So gentle, because verily so proud ; 
So wary and afraid of hurting you. 
By no means that you are not really vile. 
But that they would not touch you with 

their foot 
To push you to your place ; so self-oos- 

sessed 
Yet gracious and conciliating, it takes 
An effort in their presence to speak 

truth: 
You know the sort of woman, — brilliant 

stuff. 
And out of nature. ' Lady Waldemar.' 
She said her name quite simply, as if it 

meant 
Not much indeed, but something, — took 

my hands. 
And smiled as if her smile could help 

my case. 
And dropped her ej'es on me and let 

them melt. 
' Is this,' she said, ' the Muse ? ' 

" No sybil even,' 
I answered, ' since she fails to guess the 

cause 
Which taxed you with this visit, madam.* 
'Good,' 
She said, ' I value what's sincere at 

once ; 
Perhaps if I had found a literal Muse, 
The visit might have taxed me. As it is. 
You wear vour blue so chiefly in your 

eyes, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



My fair Aurora, in a frank good way, 
It comforts me entirely for your fame, 
As well as for the trouble of ascent 
To this Olympus.' 

There, a silver laugh 
Ran rippling through her quickened little 

breaths 
The steep stair somewhat justified. 

_ ' But still 
Your ladyship has left me curious why 
You dared the risk of finding the said 

Muse?' 

' Ah, — keep me, notwithstanding to the 

point, 
Like any pedant. Is the blue in eyes 
As awful as in stockings after all, 
I wonder, that you'd have my business 

out 
Before I breathe — exact the epic plunge 
In spite of gasps? Well, naturally you 

think 
I've come here as the lion-hunters go 
To deserts, to secure you with a trap, 
For exhibition in my drawing-rooms 
On zoologic soirees? Not in the least. 
Roar softly at me ; I am frivolous, 
I dare say ; I have played at wild-beasts 

shows, 
Like other women of my class, — but 

now 
I meet my lion simp]y as Androcles 
Met his . . when at his mercy.' 

So, she bent 
Her head, as queens may mock,— then 

lifting up 
Her eyelids with real grave queenly look, 
Which ruled and would not spare, not 

even herself, — 
' I think you have a cousin : — Romney 

Leigh.' 

' You bring a vCford from him V — my eyes 

leapt up 
To the very height of hers, — ' a word 

from hitn ? ' 

' I bring a word about him, actually. 
But first,' — she pressed me with her ur- 
gent eyes— 
' You do not love him, — you ? ' 

' You're frank at jeast 
In putting questions, madam,' I replied. 
• I love my cousin cousinly — no more.' 



' I guessed as much. I'm ready to be 

frank _ 
In answering also, if you'll question me, 
Or even with something less. You stand 

outside. 
You artist women, of the common sex ; 
You share not with us, and exceed us so 
Perhaps by what you're mulcted in, your 

hearts 
Being starved to make your heads : so 

run the old 
Traditions of you. I can therefore 

speak. 
Without the natural shame which crea- 
tures feel 
When speaking on their level, to their 

like. 
There's many a papist she, would rather 

die 
Than own to her maid she put a ribbon 

on 
To catch the indifferent eye of such a 

man, — 
Who yet would count adulteries on her 

beads 
At holy Mary's shrine and never blush ; 
Because the saints are so far off, we lose 
All modesty before them. Thus, to-day. 
'Tis /, love Romney Leigh.' 

' Forbear,' I cried. 
' If here's no Muse, still less is any saint ; 
Nor even a friend, that Lady Waldemar 
Should make confessions ' . . 

' That's unkindly said. 
If no friend, what forbids to make a 

friend 
To join to our confession ere we have 

done ? 
I love your cousin. If it seems unwise 
To say so, it's still foolisher (we're 

frank) 
To feel so. My first husband left me 

young. 
And pretty enough, so please you, and 

rich enough. 
To keep my booth in May-fair with the 

rest 
To happy issues. There are marquises 
Would serve seven years to call me wife, 

I know ; 
And, after seven, I might consider it, 
For there's some comfort in a marqui- 

sate 
When all's said, — yes, but after the seven 

vears ; 



■AURORA LEIGH. 



51 



I, now, teve Romney. You put up your 

lip, 
So like a Leigh 1 so like him !— Pardon 

me, 
I am well aware I do not derogate 
I loving Romney Leigh. The name is 

good. 
The means are excellent ; but the man ; 

the man — 
Heaven help us both,— I am near as mad 

as he. 
In loving such an one. ' 

She slowly wrung 
Her heavy ringlets till they touched her 

smile. 
As reasonably sorry for herself; 
And thus continued, — 

' Of a truth, Miss Leigh, 
I have not, without struggle come to 

this. 
I took a master In the German tongue, 
I gamed a little, went to Paris twice ; 
But, after all, this love ! . . . you eat of 

Jove, 
And do as vile a thing as if you ate 
Of garlic— which, whatever else you eat. 
Tastes uniformly acrid, till your peach 
Reminds you of your onion ! Am I 

coarse ? 
Well, love's coarse, nature's coarse— ah, 

there's the rub ! 
We fair fine ladies, who park out our 

lives 
From common sheep-paths, cannot help 

the crows 
From flying over,— we're as natural still 
As Blowsalinda. Drape us perfectly 
In Lyons' velvet, — we are not, for that, 
Lay-figures, like you : we have hearts 

within, 
Warm, live, improvident, indecent 

hearts, 
As ready for outrageous ends and acts 
As any distressed sempstress of them all 
That Romney groans and toils for. We 

catch love 
And other fevers, in the vulgar way. 
Love will not be outwitted by our wit, 
Nor outrun by our equipages :— mine 
Persisted, spite of efforts. All my cards 
Turned up but Ronmey Leigh ; my Ger- 
man stopped 
At germane Wertherisra ; my Paris 

rounds 



Returned me from the Champs Elysees 

just 
A ghost, and sighing like Dido's. I 

came home 
Uncured,— convicted rather to myself 
Of being in love . . in love ! That's 

coarse you'll say. 
I'm talking garlic' 

Coldly I replied. 
' Apologise for atheism, not love ! 
For me, I do believe in love, and God. 
I know my cousin : Lady Waldemar 
I know not : yet I say as much as this — 
Whoever loves him, let her not excuse 
But cleanse herself, that, loving such a 

man. 
She may not do it with such unworthy 

love 
He cannot stoop and take it.' 

' That is said 
Austerely, like a youthful prophetess. 
Who knits her brows across her pretty 

eyes 
To keep them back from following the 

grey flight 
Of doves between the temple-columns. 

Dear, 
Be kinder with me. Let us two be 

friends. 
I'm a mere woman,— the more weak 

periiaps 
Through being so proud ; you're better ; 

as for him. 
He's best. Indeed he builds his good- 
ness up 
So high, it topples down to the other 

side. 
And makes a sort of badness ; there's 

the worst 
I have to say against your cousin's best I 
And so be mild, Aurora, with my worst. 
For his sake, if not mine.' 

' I own myself, 
Incredulous of confidence like this 
Availing him or you.' 

*And I, myself, 
Of being worthy of him with any love : 
In your sense 1 am not so — let it pass. 
Let that pass too.' 

' Pass, pass ! we play police 
Upon my cousin's life, to indicate 
What may or may not pass. ' I cried, 

' He knows 
What's worthy of him; the choice re- 
mains with him ; 



58 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And what he chooses, act or wife, I 

think 
I shall not call unworthy, I, for one.' 

* 'Tis somewhat rashly said,' she answer- 

ed slow. 

* Now let's talk reason, though we talk 

of love. 

Your cousin Romney Leigh's a monster : 
there, 

The word's out fairly ; let me prove the 
fact. 

We'll take, say, that most i^erfect of an- 
tiques 

They call the Genius of the Vatican, 

Which seems too beauteous to endure it- 
self 

In this mixed world, and fasten it for 
once 

Upon the torso of the Dancing Fawn, 

(Who might limp surely, if he did not 
dance,) 

Instead of Buonarroti's mask : what 
then ? 

We show the sort of monster Romney is, 

With god-like virtue and heroic aims 

Subjoined to limping possibilities 

Of mismade human nature. Grant the 
man 

Twice godlike, twice heroic,— still he 
limps. 

And here's the point we come to.' 

' Pardon me, 

But, Lady Waldemar, the point's the 
thing 

We never come to.' 

' Caustic, insolent 

At need ! I like you ' — (there, she took 
my hands) 

* And now my lioness, help Androcles, 
For all your roaring. Help me ! for my- 
self 

I would not say so — but for him. He 

limps 
So certainly, he'll fall into the pit 
A week hence, — so I lose him — so he is 

lost ! 
For when he's fairly married, he a Leigh, 
To a girl of doubtful life, undoubtful 

birth, 
Starved out in London till her coarse- 
grained hands 
Are whiter than her morals, — even you 
May call his choice unworthy.' 

' Married ! lost ! 
He, . . , Romney ! ' 



' Ah, you're moved at last,' she said. 

' These monsters, set out in the open 
sun, 

Of course throw monstrous shadows: 
those who think 

Awry, will scarce act straightly. Who 
but he? 

And who but you can wonder ? He has 
been mad. 

The whole world knows, since first, a 
nominal man. 

He soured the proctors, tried the gowns- 
men's wits. 

With equal scorn of triangles and wine, 

And took no honours, yet was honour- 
able. 

They'll tell you he lost count of Homer's 
ships 

In Melbourne's poor-bills, Ashley's fac- 
tory bills. — 

Ignored the Aspasia we all dare to praise, 

For other women, dear, we could not 
name 

Because we're decent. Well, he had 
some right 

On his side probably ; men always have. 

Who go absurdly wrong. The living 
boor 

Who brews your ale, exceeds in vital 
worth 

Dead Caesar who ' stops bungholes ' in 
the cask ; 

And also, to do good is excellent. 

For persons of his income, even to 
boors : 

I sympathise with all such things. But 
he 

Went mad upon them . . madder and 
more mad. 

From college times to these, — as. going 
down hill. 

The faster still, the farther ! you must 
know 

Your Leigh by heart ; he has sown his 
black young curls 

With bleaching cares of half a million 
men 

Already. If you do not starve, or sin. 

You're nothing to him. Pay the income- 
tax. 

And break your heart upon't . . he'll 
scarce be touched ; 

But come upon the parish, qualified 

For the parish stocks, and Romney will 
be there 



AURORA LEIGH. 



53 



Ts call you brother, sister, or perhaps 
A tenderer name still. Had I any chance 
With Mister Leigh, who am Lady Wal- 

demar, 
And never committed felony ? ' 

' You speak 
Too bitterly,' I said, 'for the literal 

truth.' 

' The truth is bitter. Here's a man \v\\o 
looks 

For ever on the ground ! you must be 
low ; 

Or else a pictured ceiling overhead, 

Good painting thrown away. For me, 
I've done 

What women may, we're somewhat lim- 
ited, 

We modest women, but I've done my 
best. 

-^How men are perjured when they 
swear our eyes 

Have meaning in them ! they're just 
blue or brown. 

They just can drop their lids a little. 
And yet 

Mine did more, for I read half Fourier 
through, 

Proudhon, Considerant, and Louis 
Blanc, 

With various other of his socialists ; 

And if I had been a fathom less in love, 

Had cured myself with gaping. As it 
was, 

T quoted from them prettily enough 

Perhaps, to make them sound half ra- 
tional 

To a saner man than he whene'er we 
talked, 

(For which I dodged occasion) — learnt 
by heart 

His speeches in the Commons and else- 
where 

Upon the social question ; heaped re- 
ports 

Of wicked women and penitentiaries. 

On all my tables, with a place for Sue ; 

And gave my name to swell subscription- 
lists 

Toward keeping up the sun at night ia 
heaven, 

And other possible ends. All things I 
did, 

Except the impossible . . such as wear- 
iu9L gowns 



Provided by the Ten Hours' movement : 

there, 
I stopped — we must stop somewhere. 

He, meanwhile, 
Unmoved as the Indian tortoise 'neath 

the world. 
Let all that noise go on upon his back : 
He would not disconcert or throw me 

out ; 
'Twas well to see a woman of my class 
With such a dawn of conscience. For 

the heart. 
Made firewood for his sake, and flaming 

MP 
To his face, — he merely warmed his feet 

at it; 
But deigned to let my carriage stop him 

short 
In park or street, — he leaning on the door 
With news of the committee which sate 

last 
On pickpockets at suck.' 

' You jest — you jest.' 

' As martyrs jest, dear, (If you read their 

lives) 
Upon the axe which kills them. When 

all's done 
By me, . . for him — you'll ask him pres- 
ently 
The colour of my hair — he cannot tell. 
Or answers ' dark ' at random, — while, 

be sure. 
He's absolute on the figure, five or ten, 
Of my last subscription. Is it bearable, 
And I a woman ? ' 

' Is it reparable, 
I'hough / were a man ? ' 

' I know not. That's to prove. 
But first, this shameful marriage.' 

'Ay ?' I cried, 
' Then really there's a marriage? ' 

' Yesterday 
I held him fast upon it. ' Mister Leigh,' 
Said I, ' shut up a thing, it makes more 

noise. 
' The boIHng town keeps secrets ill ; I've 

known 
' Yours since last week. Forgive my 

knowledge so 
' You feel I'm not the woman of the 

world 
' The world thinks ; you have borne with 

me before 



54 



AURORA LEIGH. 



' And used me in your noble work, our 

work, 
' And now you shall not cast me off 

because 
' You're at the difficult point, the Join. 

'Tis true 

* Even I can scarce admit tlie cogency 

' Of such a marriage . . where you do 

not love, 
'(Except the class) yet marry and throw 

your name 

* Down to the gutter, for a fire-escape 

* To future generations ! 't is sublime, 

* A great example, — a true Genesis 

* Of the opening social era. But take 

heed ; 

* This virtuous act must have a patent 

weight, 

* Or loses half its virtue. Make it tell, 

* Interpret it, and set in the light, 

' And do not muffle it in a winter cloak 
' As a vulgar bit of shame,— as if, at best, 

* A Leigh had made a misalliance and 

blushed 
♦A Howard should know it.' Then, I 
pressed him more — 

* He would not choose,' I said, ' that 

even his kin . . 
' Aurora Leigh, even . . should conceive 

his act 
' Less sacrifice, more fantasy.' At 

which 
He grew so pale, dear, . . to the lips I 

knew, 
I had touched him. ' Do you know her,' 

he inquired, 
'My cousin Aurora?' 'Yes,' I said, 

and lied, 
(But truly we all know you by your 

books) 
And so I offered to come straight to 

you, 
Explain the subject, justify the cause, 
And take you with me to St. Margaret's 

Court 
To see this miracle, this Marian Erie, 
This drover's daughter (she's not pretty, 

he swears) 
Upon whose finger, exquisitely pricked 
By a hundred needles, we're to hang the 

tie 
•Twixt class and class in England,— thus 

indeed 
By such a presence, yours and mine, to 
lift 



The match up from the doubtful place. 

At once 
He thanked me sighing . . murmured 

to himself 
' She'll do it perhaps ; she's noble,'— 

thanked me, twice. 
And promised, as my guerdon, to put off 
His marriage for a month.' 

I answered then. 

' I understand your drift imperfectly. 

You wish to lead me to my cousin's be- 
trothed. 

To touch her hand if worthy, and hold 
her hand 

If feeble, thus to justify his match. 

So be it then. But how this serve;; your 
ends, 

And how thi strange confession o f your 
love 

Serves this, I have to learn — I cannot 



She knit her restless forehead. ' Then, 

despite, 
Aurora, that most radiant morning 

name, 
You're dull as any London afternoon. 
I wanted time,— and gained it, — wanted 

you. 
And gain you ! You will come and see 

the girl 
In whose most prodigal eyes the lineal 

pearl 
And pride of all your lofty race of Leighs 
Is destined to solution. Authorised 
By sight, and knowledge, then, you'll 

speak your mind. 
And prove to Romney, in your brilliant 

way, 
He'll wrong the people and posterity 
(Say such a thing is bad for me and you, 
And you fail utterly,) by concluding thus 
An execrable marriage. Break it up. 
Disroot it — peradventure presently. 
We'll plant a better fortune in its place. 
Be good to me, Aurora, scorn me less 
For saying the thing I should not. Well 

I know 
I should not. I have kept, as others 

have, 
The iron rule of womanly reserve 
In lip and life, till now: I wept a week 
Before I came here.' — Ending, she was 

pale ; 



AURORA LEIGH. 



55 



The last words, haughtily said, were 

tremulous. 
This palfrey pranced in harness, arched 

her neck. 
And, only by the foam upon the bit. 
You saw she champed against it. 

Then I rose. 
* I love love : truth's no cleaner thing 

than love. 
I comprehend a love so fiery hot 
It burns its natural veil of august shame, 
And stands sublimely in the nude, as 

chaste 
As Medicean Venus. But I know, 
A love that burns through veils will burn 

through masks 
And shrivel up treachery. Wliat, love 

and lie ! 
Nay — go to the opera ! your love's cura- 
ble.' 

' I love and lie ? ' she said — ' I lie, for- 
sooth ? ' 

And beat her taper foot upon the floor, 

And smiled against the shoe, — ' You're 
hard, Miss Leigh, 

Unversed in current phrases,— Bowling- 
greens 

Of poets are fresher than the world's 
highways ; 

Forgive me that I rashly blew the dust 

Which dmis our hedges even, m your 
eyes. 

And vexed you so much. You find, pro- 
bably. 

No evil in this marriage, — rather good 

Of innocence, to pastoralise in song : 

You'll give the bond your signature, per- 
haps. 

Beneath the lady's mark, — indifferent 

That Romney chose a wife, could write 
her name. 

In witnessing he loved her.' 

' Loved ! ' I cried ; 

'• Who tells you that he wants a wife to 
love' 

He gets a horse to use, not love, I think : 

There's work for wives as well, — and af- 
ter, straw. 

When men are liberal. For myself, you 
err 

Supposing power m me to break this 
match. 

I could not do it to save Romney's life ; 

And would not, to save mine.' 



• You take so it' 
She said ; ' farewell then. Write your 

books in peace, 
As far as may be for some secret stir 
Now obvious to me, — for, most obvious- 

'y' . . 

In coming hither I mistook the way.' 
Whereat she touched my hand, and bent 

her head. 
And floated from me like a silent cloud 
That leaves the sense of thunder. 

I drew breath 
Oppressed in my deliverance. After all 
This woman breaks her social system up 
For love, so counted — the love possible 
To such, — and lilies are still lilies, pulled 
By smutty hands, though spotted from 

their white ; 
And thus she is better haply of her kind, 
Than Romney Leigh, who lives by dia- 
grams. 
And crosses out the spontaneities 
Of all his ind'vidual, personal life, 
With formal universals. As if man 
Were set upon a high stool at a desk 
To keep God's books for Him in red and 

black, 
And feel by millions ! What, if even 

God 
Were chiefly God by living out Himself 
To an individualism of the Infinite, 
Eterne, intense, profuse, — still throwing 

up 
The golden spray of multitudinous 

worlds 
In measure to the proclive weight and 

rush 
Of His inner nature, — the spontaneous 

love 
Still proof and outflow of spontaneous 

life? 
Then live, Aurora. 

Two hours afterward, 
Within St. Margaret's Court I stood 

alone, 
Close-veiled. A sick child, from an ague- 
fit. 
Whose wasted right hand gamboled 

'gainst his left 
With an old brass button in a blot of 

sun. 
Jeered weakly at me as I passed across 
The uneven pavement ; while a woman, 
rouged 



56 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Upon the angular cheek-bones, kerchief 

torn, . . 

Thin dangling locks, and flat lascivious 

mouth, 
Cursed at a window both ways, in and 

out, 
By turns some bed-rid creature and m}'- 

self,— 
* Lie still there, mother ! liker the dead 

dog 
You'll be to-morrow. What, we pick 

our way, 
Fine madam, with those damnable small 

feet ! 
We cover up our face from doing good. 
As if it were our purse ! What brings 

you here, 
My lady ? is't to find my gentleman 
Who visits his tame pigeon in the 

eaves? 
Our cholera catch you with its cramps 

and spams. 
And tumble up your good clothes, veil 

and all, 
And turn your whiteness dead-blue.' I 

looked up ; 
1 think I could have walked through 

hell that day, 
And never flinched. ' The dear Christ 

comfort you,' 
] said, ' you must have been most miser- 
able 
'io be so cruel,' — and I emptied out 
My purse upon the stones : when, as I 

had cast 
The last charm in the cauldron, the whole 

court 
Went boiling, bubbling up, from all its 

doors 
And windows, with a hideous wail of 

laughs 
And roar of oaths, and blows perhaps . . 

I passed 
Too quickly for distinguishing . . and 

pushed 
A little side-door hanging on a hinge, 
And plunged into the dark, and groped 

and climbed 
The long, steep, narrow stair 'twixt brok- 
en rail 
And mildewed wall that let the plaster 

drop 
To startle me in the blackness. Still, 
up, up ! 



So high lived Romney's bride. I paused 

at last 
Before a low door in the roof, and 

knocked ; 
There came an answer like a hurried 

dove, 
' So soon ? can that be Mister Leigh ? so 

soon ? ' 
And as I entered, an ineffable face 
Met mine upon the threshold. ' Oh, not 

you. 
Not you ! ' . . . the dropping of the 

voice implied, 
' Then, if not you, for me not any one.' 
I looked her in the eyes, and held her 

hands. 
And said, ' I am his cousin, — Romney 

Leigh's; 
And here I'm come to see my cousin 

too.' 
She touched me with her face and with 

her voice. 
This daughter of the people. Such soft 

flowers. 
From such rough roots? the people, un- 
der there, 
Can sin so, curse so, look so, smell so . . . 

faugh 1 
Yet have such daughters ? 

No wise beautiful 
Was Marian Erie. She was not white 

nor brown, 
But could look either, like a mist that 

changed 
According to being shone on more ol 

less. 
The hair, too, ran its opulence of curls 
In doubt 'twixt dark and bright, nor lef/ 

you clear 
To name the colour. Too much hai< 

perhaps 
(I'll name a fault here) for so small a 

head, 
Which seemed to droop on that side and 

on this, 
As a full- blown rose uneasy with it? 

weight 
Though not a wind should trouble it. 

Again, 
The dimple in the cheek had btttef 

gone 
With redder, fuller rounds : and some- 
what large 
The mouth was, though the milky littk 
teeth 



AURORA LEIGH. 



57 



Dissolved it to so infantine a smile. 
For soon it smiled at me ; the eyes 

smiled too. 
But 'twas as it remembering they had 

wept. 
And knowing they should, some day, 

weep again. 

We talked. She old me all her story out. 
Which I'll re-tell witii fuller utterance, 
As coloured and confirmed in aftertimes 
By others and herself too. Marian 

Erie 
Was born upon the ledge of Malvern 

Hill 
To eastward, in a hut built up at night 
To evade the landlord's eye, of mud and 

turf. 
Still liable, if once he looked that way, 
To being straight levelled, scattered by 

his foot. 
Like any other anthill. Born, I say ; 
God sent her to His world, commissioned 

right. 
Her human testimonials fully signed, 
Not scant in soul — complete in linea- 
ments : 
But others had to swindle her a place 
To wail in when she had come. No 

place for her. 
By man's lawl born an outlaw, was this 

babe. 
Her first cry in our strange and strang- 
ling air, 
When cast in spasms out by the shudder- 
ing womb. 
Was wrong against tlie social code, — 

forced wrong. 
What business had the baby to cry 
there ? 

I tell her story and grow passionate. 
She, Marian, did not tell it so, but used 
Meek words that made no wonder of 

herself 
For being so sad a creature. ' Mister 

Leigh 
Considered truly that such things should 

change. 
Thev ivill^ in heaven — but meantime, on 

the earth, 
There's none can like a nettle as a pink. 
Except himself. We're nettles, some 

of us, 



And give offence by the act of springing 

up; 
And, it we leave tlie damp side of the 

wall, 
Tlie hoes, of course, are on us.' So she 

said. 
Her father earned his life by random 

jobs 
Despised by steadier workmen — keeping 

swine 
On commons, picking hops, or hurrying 

on 
The harvest at wet seasons, — or, at need, 
Assisting the Welsh drovers, when a 

drove 
Of startled horses plunged into the mist 
Below the mountain-road, and sowed the 

wind 
With wandering neighlngs. In between 

the gaps 
Of such irregular work, he drank and 

slept. 
And cursed his wife because, the pence 

being out. 
She could not buy more drink. At 

which she turned 
(The worm) and beat her baby in re- 
venge 
For her own broken heart. There's not 

a crime 
Buttakes it's proper change out still in 

crime, 
If once rung on the counter of this 

world ; 
Let sinners look to it. 

Yet the outcast child, 
For whom the very mother's face fore- 
went 
The mother's special patience, lived and 

grew ; 
Learnt early to cry low, and walk alone. 
With that pathetic vacillating roll 
Of the infant body on tlie uncertain feet, 
(The earth being felt unstable ground so 

soon) 
At which most women's arms unclose at 

once 
With irrepressive instinct. Thus, at 

three. 
This poor weaned kid would run off from 

the fold. 
This babe would steal off from the moth- 
er's chair. 
And, creeping through the golden walls 

of gnrse, 



5S 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Would find some keyhole toward the se- 
crecy 
Of Heaven's high blue, and, nestling 

down, peer out — 
Oh, not to catch the angels at their 

games, 
She "had never heard of angels,— but to 

gaze 
She knew not why, to see she knew not 

what, 
A-hungering outward from the barren 

earth 
For something like a joy. She liked, she 

said. 
To dazzle black her sight against the 

sky, 
For then, it seemed, some grand blind 

Love came down. 
And groped her out, and clasped her 

with a kiss ; 
She learnt God that way, and was beat 

for it 
Whenever she went home, — yet came 

again. 
As surely as the trapped hare, getting 

free, 
Returns to his form. This grand blind 

Love, she said, 
This skyey father and mother both in 

one, 
Instructed her and civilised Iier more 
1'han even Sunday-school did afterward. 
To which a lady sent lier to learn books. 
And sit upon a long bench in a row 
With other children. Well, she laughed 

sometimes 
To see them laugh and laugh and maul 

tlieir texts ; 
But ofter she was sorrowful with noise, 
And wondered if their mothers beat them 

hard 
That ever they should laugh so. There 

was one 
She loved indeed,— Rose Bell, a seven 

years' child, 
So pretty and clever, who read syllables 
When Marian was at letters ; she would 

laugh 
At nothing— hold your finger up, she 

laughed, 
Then shook her curls down over eyes 

and mouth 
To hide her make-mirth from the school- 
master. 
And Rose's pelting glee, as frank as rain 



On cherry-blossoms, brightened Marian 

too. 
To see another merry whom she loved. 
She whispered once (the children side by 

side. 
With mutual arms entwined about their 

necks) 
' Your mother lets you laugh so? ' ' Ay,' 

said Rose, 
' She lets me. She was dug into the 

ground 
Six years since, I being but a yearling 

wean. 
Such mothers let us play and lose our 

time. 
And never scold nor beat us ! don't you 

wish 
You had one like that? ' There, Marian 

breaking off 
Looked suddenly in my face. ' Poor 

Rose,' said she, 
' I heard her laugh last night in Oxford 

Street. 
I'd pour out half my blood to stop that 

laugh. 
Poor Rose, poor Rose ! 'said Marian. 

She resumed. 
It tried her, when she had learnt at 

Sunday-school 
What God was, what he wanted from us 

all, 
And how in choosing sin we vexed the 

Christ, 
To go straight home and hear her father 

pull 
The name down on us from the thunder 

shelf. 
Then drink away his soul into the dark 
From seeing judgment. Father, mother, 

home. 
Were God and heaven reversed to her ; 

the more 
She knew of Right, the more she guessed 

their wrong. 
Her price paid down for knowlegde, was 

to know 
The vileness of her kindred: through 

her heart. 
Her filial and tormented lieart, hence- 
forth, 
They struck their blows at virtue. Oh, 

'tis hard 
To learn you have a father up in heaven 
By a gathering certain sense of being, 
on earth, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



59 



Still worse than orphaned : 'tis too heavy 

a grief. 
The having to thank God for such a joy ! 

And so passed Marian's life from year to 

year. 
Her parents took her with them when 

they tramped. 
Dodged lanes and heaths, frequented 

towns and fairs, 
And once went farther and saw Man- 
chester, 
And once the sea, that blue end of the 

world, 
That fair scroll-finis of a wicked book, — 
And twice a prison, back at intervals. 
Returning to the hills. Hills draw like 

heaven. 
And stronger sometimes, holding out 

their hands 
To pull you from the vile flats up to 

them ; 
And though perhaps these strollers still 

strolled back. 
As sheep do, simply that they knew the 

way, 
They certainly felt bettered unaware 
Emerging from the social smut of towns 
To wipe their feet clean on the mountain- 
turf. 
In which long wanderings, Marian lived 

and learned, 
Endured and learned. The people on 

the roads 
Would stop and ask her how her eyes 

outgrew 
Her cheeks, and if she meant to lodge 

the birds 
In all that hair ; and then they lifted her, 
The miller in his cart, a mile or twain, 
The butcher's boy on horseback. Often 

too 
The pedlar stopped, and tapped her on 

the head 
With absolute forefinger, brown and 

ringed. 
And asked if peradventure she could 

read ; 
And when she answered ' ay,' would toss 

her down 
Some stray odd volume from his heavy 

pack, 
A Thomson's Seasons, mulcted of the 
Spring, 



Or half a play of Shakspeare's, torn 

across : 
(She had to guess the bottom of a page 
By just the top sometimes, — as difficult, 
As, sitting on the moon, to guess the 

earth !) 
Or else a sheaf of leaves (for that small 

Ruth's 
Small gleanings) torn out from the heart 

of books. 
From Churchyard Elegies and Edens 

Lost, 
From Burns, and Bnnyan, Selkirk, and 

Tom Jones. 
'Twas somewhat hard to~keep the things 

distinct, 
And oft the jangling influence jarred the 

child 
Like looking at a sunset full of grace 
Through a pothouse window while the 

drunken oaths 
Went Oil behind her ; but she weeded 

out 
Her book-leaves, threw away the leaves 

that hurt, 
(First tore them small, that none should 

find a word) 
And made a nosegay of the sweet and 

good . 
To fold within her breast, and pore upon 
At broken moments of the noontide 

glare. 
When leave was given her to untie her 

cloak 
And rest upon the dusty highway's bank 
From the road's dust. Or oft, the jour- 
ney done. 
Some city friend would lead her by the 

hand 
To hear a lecture at an Institute : 
And thus she had grown, this Marian 

Erie of ours. 
To no book-learning,— she was ignorant 
Of authors,— not in earshot of the things 
Out-spoken o'er the heads of common 

men 
By men who are uncommon. — but with- 
in 
The cadenced hum of such, and capable 
Of catching from the fringes of the wind 
Some fragmentary phrases, here and 

there, 
Of that fine music,— which, being carried 

in 
To her soul, had reproduced itself afresh 



Co AUROKA LKIGH. 

In finer motions of the lips and lids. 



She said, in speaking of it, ' if a flower 
Were thrown you out of heaven at inter- 
vals, 
You'd soon attain to a trick of looking 

up,— 
And so with her.' She counted me her 

years. 
Till / felt old ; and then she counted me 
Her sorrowful pleasures, till I felt 

ashamed. 
She told me she was fortunate and calm 
On such and such a season ; sate and 

sewed; 
With no one to break up her crystal 

thoughts ; 
While rhymes from lovely poems span 

around 
Iheir rniging circles of ecstatic tune. 
Beneath the moistened finger of the 

Hour. 
Her parents called her a strange, sickly 

child, 
Not good for much, and given to sulk 

and stare. 
And smile into the hedges and the clouds, 
And tremble if one shook her from her 

fit 
r>y any blow or word even. Out-door 

jobs 
Went ill with her ; and household quiet 

work 
She was not born to. Had they kept 

the north. 
They might have had their pennyworth 

out of her 
Like other parents, m the factories ; 
(Vour children work for you, not you for 

them, 
Or else they better had been choked with 

air 
The first breath drawn ;) but, in this 

tramping life, 
Was nothing to be done with such a 

child 
But tramp and tramp. And yet she 

knitted hose 
Not ill, and was not dull at needlework ; 
And all the country people gave her 

pence 
For darning stockings past their natural 

age. 
And patching petticoats from old to new, 



And other light work done for thrifty 
wives. 

One day, said Marian, — the sun shone 

that day — 
Her mo.her had been badly beat, and 

felt 
Tlie bruises sore about her wretched 

soul, 
(That must have been :) she came in 

suddenly, 
And snatching in a sort of breathless 

rage 
Her daughter's headgear comb, let down 

the hair 
Upon her like a sudden waterfall 
Then drew her drenched and passive by 

the arm 
Outside the hut they lived in. When 

the child 
Could clear her blinded face from all tliat 

stream 
Of tresses . . there, a man stood, with 

beasts' eyes 
That seemed as they would swallow her 

alive 
Complete in body and spirit, hair and 

all,— 
With burning stertorous breath that 

hurt her cheek, 
He breathed so near. The mother held 

her tight. 
Saying hard between her teeth — ' Why 

wench, why wench, 
Ihe squire speaks to you now — the 

sq lire's too good ; 
He means to set you up, and comfort 

us. 
Be mannerly at least.' The child turned 

round 
And looked up piteous in the mother's 

face, 
(Be sure that mother's death-bed will 

not want 
Another devil to damn, than such a 

look) 
' Oh, mother ! ' then, with desperate 

glance to heaven, 
' God, free me from my mother,' she 

shrieked cut, 
' These. mothers are too dreadful.' And, 

witii force 
As passionate as fear, she ore her hands 
Like lilies from the rocks, from hers and 

liis, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And sprang down, bounded headlong 

down the steep, 
Away from both — away, if possible. 
As far as God, — away ! They yelled at 

her. 
As famished hounds at a hare. She 

heard them yell, 
She felt her name hiss after her from the 

hills, 
Like shot from guns. On, on. And 

now she had cast 
The voices off with the uplands. On. 

Mad fear 
Was running in her feet and killing the 

ground ; 
The white roads curled as if she burnt 

them up. 
The green fields melted, wayside trees 

fell back 
To make room for her. Then lier head 

grew vexed. 
Trees, fields, turned on her and ran after 

her ; 
She heard the quick pants of the hills 

behind. 
Their keen air pricked her neck. She 

had lost her feet. 
Could run no more, yet somehow went 

as fast. 
The horizon red 'twixt steeples in the 

east 
So sucked her forward, forward, while 

her heart 
Kept swelling, gelling, till it swelled so 

big 
It seemed to fill her body ; when it burst 
And overflowed the world and swamped 

the light, 
' And now I am dead and safe,' thought 

Marian Erie — 
She had dropped, she had fainted. 

As the sense returned. 
The night had passed — not life's night. 

She was 'ware 
Of heavy tumbling motions, creaking 

wheels, 
The driver shouting to the lazy team 
That swn.ng their rankling bells against 

her brain ; 
While, through the waggon's coverture 

and chinks, 
The cruel yellow morning pecked at her 
Alive or dead upon the straw inside, — 
At which her soul ached back into the 

dark 



And prayed, *no more of that.' A wag- 
goner 

Had found her in a ditch beneath the 
moon. 

As white as moonshine save tor the ooz- 
ing blood. 

At first he thought her dead ; but when 
he had wiped 

The mouth and heard it sigh, he raised 
her up. 

And laid her in his waggon in the straw. 

And so conveyed her to the distant town 

To which his business called himself, and 
left 

That heap of misery at the hospital. 

She stirred ; — the place seemed new and 

strange as death. 
The white strait bed, with others strait 

and white. 
Like graves dug side by side at measured 

lengths. 
And quiet people walking in and out 
With wonderful low voices and soft steps 
And apparitional equal care for each, 
Astonished her with order, silence, law : 
And when a gentle hand held out a cup, 
She took it, as you do at sacrament. 
Half awed, half melted, — not being used. 

indeed. 
To so much love as makes the form of 

love 
And courtesy of manners. Delicate 

drinks 
And rare white bread, to which some 

dying eyes 
Were turned in observation. O my 

God, 
How sick we must be, ere we make men 

just ! 
I think it frets the saints in heaven to 

see 
How many desolate creatures on the 

earth 
Have learned the simple dues of fellow- 
ship 
And social comfort, in a hospital. 
As Marian did. She lay there, stunned, 

half tranced. 
And wished, at intervals of growing 

sense, 
She might be sicker yet, if sickness 

made 
The world so marvellous kind, the air so 

hushed, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And all her wake-time quiet as a sleep ; 
For now she understood, (as such things 

were) 
How sickness ended very oft in heaven 
Among the unspoken raptures. Yet 

more sick, 
And surelier happy. Then she dropped 

her lids, 
And, folding up her hands as flowers at 

night, 
Would lose no moment of the blessed 



She lay and seethed in fever many 

weeks ; 
But youth was strong and overcame the 

test ; 
Revolted soul and flesh were reconciled 
And fetched back to the necessary day 
And daylight duties. She could creep 

about 
The long bare rooms, and stare out 

drearily 
From any narrow window on the street. 
Till some one, who had nursed her as a 

friend 
Said coldly to her, as an enemy, 
' She had leave to go next week, bemg 

well enough,' 
While only her heart ached. ' Go next 

week,' thought she, 
' Next week ! how would it be with her 

next week, 
Let out into that terrible street alone 
Among the pushing people, . . to go . . 

where ? ' 

One day, the last before the dreaded last. 
Among the convalescents, like herself 
Prepared to go next morning, she sate 

dumb. 
And heard half absently the women talk, 
How one was famished for her baby's 

cheeks — 
* The little wretch would know her ! a 

year old 
And' lively, like his father ! ' one was 

keen 
To get to work, and fill some clamorous 

mouths ; 
And one was tender for he dear good- 
man 
Who had missed her sorely,— and one, 

querulous . . 



' Would pay backbiting neighbours who 

had dared 
To talk about her as already dead,' — 
And one was proud . . ' and if her 

sweetheart Luke 
Had left her for a ruddier face than 

hers, 
(The gossip would be seen through at a 

glance) 
Sweet riddance of such sweethearts — let 

him hang ! 
'Twere good to have been as sick for 

such an end.' 

And while they talked, and Marian felt 

the worse 
For having missed the worst of all their 

wrongs, 
A visitor was ushered through the wards 
And paused among the talkers. ' When 

he looked 
It was as if he spoke, and when he spoke 
He sang perhaps,' said Marian ; ' could 

she tell ? 
She only knew (so much she had chron- 
icled. 
As seraphs might the making of the sun) 
That he who came and spake, was 

Romney Leigh, 
And then, and there, she saw and heard 

him first.' 
And when it was her turn to have the 

face 
Uponher, — all those buzzing pallid lips 
Being satisfied with comfort — when he 

changed 
To Marian, saying, ' And you ? you're 

going, where ? ' — 
She, moveless as a worm beneath a 

stone 
Which some one's stumbling foot has 

turned aside. 
Writhed suddenly, astonished with the 

light. 
And breaking into sobs cried, ' Where I 

go ? 
None asked me till this moment. Can I 

say 
Where /go? when it has rot seemed 

worth while 
To God himself, who thinks of every 

one. 
To think of me, and fix where I shall 
go?' 



AURORA LEIGH. 



63 



' So young,' he gently asked her, ' you 

have lost 
Your father and your mother ? ' 

Both,' she said, 
' Both lost I my father was burnt up with 

gin 
Or ever I sucked milk, and so is lost. 
My mother sold me to a man last month, 
And so my mother's lost, 'tis manifest. 
And I, who fled from her for miles and 

miles. 
As if I had caught sight of the fire of hell 
Through some wild gap, (she was my 

mother, sir) 
It seems I shall be lost too, presently, 
And so we end, all three of us.' 

' Poor child ! ' 
He said, — with such a pity in his voice. 
It soothed her more than her own tears, 

— ' poor child 
'Tis simple that betrayal by mother's 

love 
Should bring despair of God's too. Yet 

be taught 
He's better to us than many mothers 

are. 
And children cannot wander beyond 

reach 
Of the sweep of his white raiment. 

Touch and hold 
And if you weep still, weep where John 

was laid 
While Jesus loved him.' 

She could say the words, 
She told me, ' exactly as he uttered them 
A year back, . . since in any doubt or 

dark 
They came out like the stars, and shone 

on her 
With just their comfort. Common 

words, perhaps 
The ministers in church might say the 

same ; 
But he, he made the church with what 

he spoke, — 
The difference was the miracle," said 

she. 

Then catching up her smile to ravish- 
ment. 
She added quickly, ' I repeat his words. 
But not his tones: can any one repeat 
The music of an organ, out of church? 
And when he said ' poor child,' I shut 
ray eyes 



To feel how tenderly his voice broke 

through. 
As the ointment-box broke on the Holy 

feet 
To let out the rich medicative nard.' 

She told me how he had raised and res- 
cued her 

With reverent pity, as, in touching grief, 

He touched the wounds of Christ, — and 
made her feel 

More self-respecting. Hope, he called, 
belief 

In God, — work, worship . . therefore lei 
us pray ! 

And thus, to snatch her soul from athe- 
ism. 

And keep it stainless from her mother's 
face. 

He sent her to a famous sempstress- 
house 

Far off in London, there to work and 
hope. 

With that they parted. She kept sight 

of Heaven, 
But not of Romney. He had good to 

do 
To others : through the days and through 

the nights 
She sewed and sewed and sewed. She 

drooped sometimes. 
And wondered, while along the tawny 

light 
She struck the new thread into her 

needle's eye, 
How people without mothers on the 

hills 
Could choose the town to live in 1— then 

she drew 
The stitch, and mused how Romney's 

face would look 
And if 'twere likely he'd remember her's, 
When they too had their meeting after 

death. 



FOURTH BOOK. 

They met still sooner. 'Twas a year 

from thence 
When Lucy Gresham, the sick sempstress 

girl, 
Who sewed by Marian's chair so still and 

quick, 



64 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And leant her head upon its back to 

cough 
More freely when, the mistress turning 

round, 
The others took occasion to laugh out. 
Gave up at last. Among the workers, 

spoke 
A bold girl with black eyebrows and red 

lips, 
* You know the news ? Who's dying, do 

you think ? 
Our Lucy Gresham. I expected it 
As little as Nell Hart's wedding. Blush 

not, Nell, 
Thy curls be red enough without thy 

cheeks ; 
And, some day, there'll be found a man 

to dote 
On red curls. — Lucy Gresham swooned 

last night. 
Dropped sudden in the street while going 

home ; 
And now the baker saj's, who took her 

up 
And laid her by her grandmother in bed, 
He'll give her a week to die in. Pass 

the silk. 
Let's hope he gave her a loaf too, within 

reach. 
For otherwise they'll starve before they 

die, 
That funny pair of bedfellows ! Miss 

Bell, 
I'll thank you for the scissors. The old 

crone 
Is paralytic— that's the reason why 
Our Lucy's thread went faster than her 

breath, 
Which went too quick, we all know. 

Marian Erie ! 
Why, Marian Erie, you're not the fool 

to cry ? 
Your tears spoil Lady Waldemar's new 

dress. 
You piece of pity ! ' 

Marian rose up straight, 

And, breaking through the talk and 
through the work, 

Went outward, in the face of their sur- 
prise, 

To Lucy's home, to nurse her back to 
life 

Or down to death. She knew, by such 
an act 



All place and grace were forfeit in the 
house, 

Whose mistress would supply the miss- 
ing hand 

With necessary, not inhuman haste. 

And take no blame. But pity, too, had 
dues; 

She could not leave a solitary soul 

To founder in the dark, while she sate 
still 

And lavished stitches on a lady's hem 

As if no other work were paramount. 

'Why, God,' thought Marian, 'has a 
missing hand 

This moment ; Lucy wants a drink, per- 
haps. 

Let others miss me ! never miss me, 
God!' 

So Marian sat by Lucy's bed content 

With duty, and was strong, for recom- 
pense, 

To hold the lamp of human love arm- 
high 

To catch the death-strained eyes and 
comfort them. 

Until the angels, on the luminous side 

Of death, had got theirs ready. And she 
said, 

When Lucy thanked her sometimes, 
called her kind. 

It touched her strangely. ' Marian Erie 
called kind ! 

What, Marian, beaten and sold, who 
could not die ! 

'Tis verily good fortune to be kind. 

Ah, you,' she said, 'who are born to 
such a grace. 

Be sorry for the unlicensed class, the 
poor, 

Reduced to think the best good fortune 
means 

That others, simply, should be kind to 
them.' 

From sleep to sleep while Lucy slid 

away 
So gently, like a light upon a hill. 
Of which none names the moment that 

it goes 
Though all see when 'tis gone, — a man 

came in 
And stood beside the bed. The old idiot 

wretch 
Screamed feebly, like a baby overlain. 



A URORA LEIGH. 



' Sir, sir, you won't mistake me for the 

corpse ? 
Don't look at ;«(?, sir ! never bury 7ne ! 
Althougli I lie here I'm as live as'you, 
Except my legs and arms,— I eat and 

drink. 
And understand, — (that you're the gen- 
tleman 
Who fits the funerals up. Heaven speed 

you, sir,) 
And certainly I should be livelier still 
If Lucy here . . sir, Lucy is the 

corpse . . 
Had worked more properly to buy me 

wine : 
But Lucy, sir; was always slow at work, 
I shan't lose much by Lucy. Marian 

Erie, 
Speak up and show the gentleman the 

corpse.' 

And then a voice said, * Marian Erie.' 

She rose : 
It was the hour for angels — there, stood 

hers 1 
She scarcely marvelled to see Romney 

Leigh. 
As light November snows to empty 

nests, 
As grass to graves, as moss to mildewed 

stones, 
As July suns to ruins, through the rents. 
As ministering spirits to mourners, 

through a loss, 
As Heaven itself to men, through pangs 

of death 
He came uncalled wherever grief had 

come. 
'And so,' said Marian Erie, 'we met 

anew,' 
And added softly, * so, we shall not part.' 
He was not angry that she had left the 

house 
Wherein he placed her. Well — she had 

feared it might 
Have vexed him. Also, when he found 

her set 
On keeping, though the dead was out of 

sight, ' 
That half dead, half-live body left be- 
hind 
With cankerous hArt and flesh, — which 

took your best 
And cursed you for the little good it 

did. 



(Could any leave the bed-rid wretch 

alone. 
So joyless she was thankless even to 

God, 
Much more to you ?) he did not say 'twas 

well, 
Yet Marian thought he did not take it 

Since day by day he came, and every 

day 
Siie felt within his utterance and liis eyes 
A closer, tenderer presence of the soul. 
Until at last he said, 'We shall not 

part.' 

On that same day, was Marian's work 

complete : 
She had smoothed the empty bed, and 

swept the floor 
Of coffin sawdust, set the chairs anew 
The dead had ended gossip in, and 

stood 
In that poor room so cold and orderly, 
The door-key in her hand, prepared to 

go 
As they had, howbeit not their way. He 

spoke. 

' Dear Marian, of one clay God made us 

all. 
And though men push and poke and 

paddle in't 
(As children play at fashioning dirt-pies) 
And call their fancies by the name of 

facts. 
Assuming difference, lordship, privilege. 
When all's plain dirt, — they come back 

to it at last ; 
The first grave digger proves it with a 

spade, 
And pass all even. Need we wait for 

this. 
You, Marian, and I, Romney ? ' 

She, at that. 
Looked blindly in his face, as when one 

looks 
Through driving autumn-rains to find the 

sky. 
He went on speaking. 

' Marian, I being bom 
What men call noble, and you, issued 

from 
The noble people, — though the t>Tanoous 

sword 



66 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Which pierced Christ's heart, has cleft 

the world in twain 
'Twixt class and class, opposing rich to 

poor, 
Shall we keep parted? Not so. Let 

us lean 
And strain together rather, each to each. 
Compress the red lips of this gaping 

wound, 
As far as two souls can, — ay, lean and 

league, 
I, from my superabundance, — from your 

want 
You,— 7Joining in a ])rotest 'gainst the 

wron^ 
On both sides ! ' 

All the rest, he held her hand 
In speaking, which confused the sense of 

much ; 
Her heart against his words beat out so 

thick, 
They might as well be written on the 

dust 
Where some poor bird, escaping from 

hawk's beak, 
Has dropped and beats ts shuddering 

wings, — the lines 
Are rubbed so, — yet 'twas something like 

to this, 
— ' That they two, standing at the two 

extremes 
Of social classes, had received one seal, 
Been dedicate and drawn beyond them- 
selves 
To mercy and ministration, — he, indeed. 
Through what he knew, and she, through 

what she felt. 
He, by man's conscience, she, by wo- 
man's heart. 
Relinquishing their several 'vantage 

posts 
Of wealthy ease and honourable toil. 
To work with God at love. And since 

God willed 
That putting out his hand to touch this 

ark. 
He found a woman's hand there, he'd 

accept 
The sign too, hold the tender fingers 

fast. 
And say, ' My fellow-worker, be my 

wife ! ' 

She told the tale with simple, rustic 
turns, — 



Strong leaps of meaning in her sudden 
eyes 

That took the gaps of any imperfect 
phrase 

Of the unschooled speaker : I have rather 
writ 

The thing I understood so, than the 
thing 

I heard so. And I cannot render right 

Her quick gesticulation, wild yet soft. 

Self startled from the habitual mood she 
used. 

Half sad, half languid,— like dumb crea- 
tures (now 

A rustling bird, and now a wandering 
deer. 

Or squirrel 'gainst the oak-gloom flash- 
ing up 

His sidelong burnished head, in just her 
way 

Of savage spontaneity.) that stir 

Abruptly the green silence of the woods, 

And make it stranger, holier, more pro- 
found ; 

As Nature's general heart confessed itself 

Of life, and then fell backward on re- 
pose. 

I kissed the lips that ended. — ' So in- 
deed 

He loves you, Marian ? ' 

' Loves me ! ' She looked up 

With a child's wonder when you ask 
him first 

Who made the sun — a puzzled blush, 
that grew. 

Then broke off in a rapid radiant smile 

Of sure solution. ' Loves me ! he loves 
all,— 

And me, of course. He had not a.sked 
me else 

To work with him for ever and be his 
wife.' 

Her words reproved me. This perhaps 

was love — 
To have its hands too full of gifts to 

give. 
For putting out a hand to take a gift ; 
To love so much, the perfect round of 

love 
Includes, in strict conclusion, being 

loved ; 
As Eden -dew went up and fell again. 
Enough for watering Eden. Obviously 



AURORA LEIGH. 



67 



She had not thought about his love at 

all: 
The cataracts of her soul had poured 

themselves, 
And risen self-crowned in rainbow ; would 

she ask 
Who crowned her ? — it sufficed that she 

was crowned. 
With women of my class, 'tis otherwise : 
We haggle for the small change of our 

gold. 
And so much love accord for so much 

love, 
Rialto-prices. Are we therefore wrong? 
If marriage be a contract, look to it then. 
Contracting parties should be equal, 

just ; 
But if, a simple fealty on one side, 
A mere religion, — right to give, is all, 
And certain brides of Europe duly ask 
To mount the pile as Indian widows do, 
The spices of their tender youth heaped 

up. 
The jewels of their gracious virtues 

worn. 
More gems, more glory, — to consume 

entire 
For a living husband : as the man's 

alive, 
Not dead, the woman's duty by so 

much, 
Advanced in England beyond Hindos- 

tan. 

I sate there musing, till she touched my 

hand 
With hers, as softly as a strange white 

bird 
She feared to startle in touching. ' You 

are kind. 
But are you, peradventure, vexed at 

heart 
Because your cousin takes me for a wife ? 
I know I am not worthy — nay, in truth, 
I'm glad on't, since, for that, he chooses 

me. 
He likes the poor things of the world the 

best ; 
I would not therefore, if I could, be 

rich. 
Tt pleasures him to stoop for buttercups ; 
f would not be a rose upon the wall 
A queen might stop at, near the palace- 
door, 



To say to a courtier, ' Pluck that rose 

for me, 
' It's prettier than the rest.' O Romney 

Leigh ! 
I'd rather far be trodden by his foot. 
Than lie in a great queen's bosom.' 

Out of breath 
She paused. 

' Sweet Marian, do you disavow 
The roses with that face ? ' 

She dropt her head. 
As if the wind had caught tliat flower of 

her. 
And bent it in the garden,— then looked 

up 
With grave assurance. ' Well, you think 

me bold 1 
But so we all are, when we're praving 

God. 
And if I'm bold — yet, lai-Vi credit me, 
That, since I know myself for what I 

am. 
Much fitter for his handmaid than his 

wife, 
I'll prove the handmaid and the wife at 

once, 
Serve tenderly, and love obediently. 
And be a worthier mate, perhaps, than 

some 
Who are wooed in silk among their 

learned books ; 
While / shall set myself to read his eyes. 
Till such grow plainer to me than the 

French 
To wisest ladies. Do you tliink I'll miss 
A letter, in the spelling of his mind .' 
No more than they do when they sit and 

write 
Their flying words with flickering wild- 
fowl tails, 
Nor ever pause to ask how many ts, 
Should that be y or / — they know't so 

well : 
I've seen them writing, when I brought 

a dress 
And waited,— floating out their soft white 

hands 
On shining paper. But they're hard 

sometimes, 
For all those hands ! — we've used out 

many nights, 
And worn the yellow daylight into shreds 
Which flapped and shivered down our 

aching eyes 
Till night appeared more tolerable, just 



68 



A URORA LEIGH. 



That pretty ladies might look beautiful, 
Who said at last . . ' You're lazy in that 

house ! 
' You're slow in sending home the work, 

— I count 
' I've waited near an hour for't.' Pardon 

me, 
I do not blame them, madam, nor mis- 
prize ; 
They are fair and gracious ; ay, but not 

like you, 
Since none but you has Mr. Leigh's own 

blood 
Both noble and gentle, — and without 

it . . well, 
They are fair, I said ; so fair, it scarce 

seems strange 
That, flashing out in any looking-glass 
The wonder of their glorious brows and 

breasts. 
They are charmed so, they forget to look 

behind 
And mark how pale we've grown, we 

pitiful 
Remainders of the world. And so ]5er- 

haps 
If Mister Leigh had chosen a wife from 

these. 
She might . . although he's better than 

her best, 
And dearly she would know it . . steal 

a thought 
Which should be all his, an eye-glance 

from his face, 
To plunge into the mirror opposite 
In search of her own beauty's pearl : 

while / . . 
Ah, dearest lady, serge will outweigh 

silk 
For winter-wear when bodies feel a-cold, 
And I'll be a true wife to your cousin 

Leigh.' 

I>efore I answered he was there himself. 
I think he had been standing in the 

room 
And listened probably to half her talk, 
Arrested, turned to stone, — as white as 

stone. 
Will tender sayings make men look so 

white ? 
He loves her then profoundly- 

' You are here, 
Auroin? Here I meet you ! '—We 

clasped hands. 



' Even so, dear Romney. Lady Walde- 

mar 
Has sent me in haste to find a cousin of 

mine 
Who shall be.' 

' Lady Waldemar is good.' 

' Here's one, at least, who is good,' I 

sighed, and touched 
Poor Marian's happy head, as, doglike 

she 
Most passionately patient, waited on, 
A-tremble for her turn of greeting words ; 
' I've sat a full hour with your Marian 

Erie, 
And learnt the thing by heart, — and, 

from my heart. 
Am therefore competent to give you 

thanks 
For such a cousin.' 

' You accept at last 
A gift from me, Aurora, without scorn ? 
At last I please you?'- How his voice 

was changed I 

' You cannot please a woman against lier 
will, 

And once you vexed me. Shall we 
speak of that ? 

We'll say, then, you were noble in it all 

And I not ignorant — let it pass. And 
now 

You please me, Romney, when you 
please yourself; 

So, please you, be fanatical in love, 

And I'm well pleased. Ah, cousin ! at 
the old hall. 

Among the gallery portraits of our 
Leighs, 

We shall not find a sweeter signory 

Than this pure forehead's.' 

Not a word he said. 

How arrogant men are ! — Even philan- 
thropists, 

Who try to take a wife up in the way 

They put down a subscription-cheque, — 
if once 

She turns and says, ' I will not tax you 
• so, 

Most charitable sir,'— feel ill at ease, 

As though she had wronged them some- 
how. I suppose 

We woman should remember what we 
are, 

And not throw back an obolus inscribed 



AURORA LEIGH. 



69 



With Caesar's image, lightly. I resum- 
ed. 

' It strikes me, some of those sublime 
Vandykes 

Were not too proud to make good saints 
in heaven ; 

And if so, then they're not too proud to- 
day 

To bow down (now the ruffs are off their 
necks) 

And own this good, true, noble Marian, 
. . yours. 

And mine, I'll say ! — For poets (bear 
the word) 

Half-poets even, are still whole demo- 
crats, — 

Oh, not that we're disloyal to the high, 

But loyal to the low, and cognisant 

Of the less scrutable majesties. Forme, 

I comprehend your choice— I justify 

Your right in choosing.' 

' No, no, no,' he sighed. 

With a sort of melancholy impatient 
scorn. 

As some grown man, who never had a 
child. 

Puts by some child who plays at being a 
man, 

— ' You did not, do not, cannot compre- 
hend 

My choice, my ends, my motives, nor 
myself: 

No matter now — we'll let it jiass, you 
say. 

I thank you for your generous cousin- 
ship 

Which helps this present ; I accept for 
her 

Your favourable thoughts. We're fallen 
on days. 

We two who are not poets, when to wed 

Requires less mutual love than common 
love. 

For two together to bear out at once 

Upon the loveless many. Work in 
pairs, 

In galley-couplings or in marriage-rings, 

I'he difference lies in the honour, not the 
work, — 

And such we're bound to, I and she. 
But love, 

(You poets are benighted in this age ; 

The hour's too late for catching even 
inoth$, 



You've gnats instead,) love !— love's fool- 
paradise 

Is out of date, like Adam's. Set a swan 

To swim the Trenton, rather than true 
love 

To float its fabulous plumage safely 
down 

The cataracts of this loud transition- 
time, — 

Wiiose roar, for ever henceforth in my 
ears 

Must keep me deaf to music' 

There, I turned 

And kissed poor Marian, out of discon- 
tent. 

The man had baffled, chafed ine, till I 
flung 

For refuge to the woman, — as, some- 
times. 

Impatient of some crowded room's close 
smell. 

You throw a window open and lean out 

To breathe a long breath in the dewy 
night 

And cool your angry forehead. She, at 
least. 

Was not built up as walls are, brick by- 
brick ; 

Each fancy squared, each feeling ranged 
by line, 

The very heat of burning youth applied 

To indurate forms and systems ! excel-, 
lent bricks, 

A well built wall, — which stops you o\\ 
the road, 

And, into which, you cannot see an inch 

Although you beat your head against it 
— pshaw ! 

'Adieu,' I said, 'for this time, cousina 

both; 
And, cousin Romney, pardon me the 

word, 
Be happy !— oh, in some esoteric sense 
Of course ! — I mean no harm in wishing 

_ well. 
Adieu, my Marian : —may she come to 

me. 
Dear Romney, and be married from my 

house ? 
It is not part of your philosophy 
To keep your bird upon the blackthorn ? ' 
' Ay,' 
K^ answered, ' but it is : — I take my wife 



70 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Directly from the people,— nnd she 

comes 
As Austria's daughter to imperial Francs, 
Betwixt her eagles, blinking not her 

race, 
From Margaret's Court at garret-height, 

to meet 
And wed me at St. James's, nor put off 
Her gown of serge for that. The things 

we do, 
We do : we'll wear no mask, as if we 

blushed.' 

' Dear Romney, you're the poet,' I re- 
plied, 
But felt my smile too mournful for my 

word, 
And turned and went. Ay, masks, I 

thought,— beware 
Of tragic masks we tie before the glass, 
Uplifted on the cothurn half a yard 
Above the natural stature ! we would 

play 
Heroic parts to ourselves,— and end, 

perhaps, 
As impotently as Athenian wives 
Who shrieked in fits at the Eumenldes. 

His foot pursued me down the stair. 
' At least, 

You'll suffer me to walk with you beyond 

These hideous streets, these graves, 
where men alive. 

Packed close with earthworms, burr un- 
consciously 

About the plague that slew them ; let 
me go. 

The very women pelt their souls in mud 

At any woman who walks here alone. 

How came you here alone? — you are 
ignorant.' 

We had a strange and melancholy walk : 

The night came drizzling downward in 
dark rain ; 

And, as we walked, the colour of the 
time, 

The act, the presence, my hand upon his 
arm. 

His voice in my ear, and mine to my 
own sense, 

Appeared unnatural. We talked modern 
books. 

And daily papers; Spanish marriage- 
schemes, 



And English climate— was't so cold latt 

year? 
And will the wind change by to-morrow 

morn ? 
Can Guizot stand? is London full? is 

trade 
Compeitive? has Dickens turned his 

hinge 
A pinch upon the fingers of the great? 
And are potatoes to grow mythical 
Like moly ? will the apple die out too? 
Which way is the wind to-night ? south- 
east ? due east ? 
We talked on fast, while every common 

word 
Seemed tangled with the thunder at one 

end. 
And ready to pull down upon our heads 
A terror out of sight. And yet to pause 
Were surelier mortal : we tore greedily 

All silence, all the innocent breathing- 
points. 
As if, like pale conspirators in haste. 
We tore up papers where our signatures 
Imperilled us to an ugly shame or death. 



I cannot tell you why it was. 'Tis plain 

We had not loved nor hated : wherefore 
dread 

To spill gunpowder on ground safe from 
fire? 

Perhaps we had lived too closely, to di- 
verge 

So absolutely : leave two clocks, they 
say. 

Wound up to different hours, upon one 
shelf. 

And slowly, through the interior wheels 
of each, 

The blind mechanic motion sets itself 

A-throb to feel out for the mutual time. 

It was not so with us, indeed. While 
he 

Struck midnight, I kept striking six at 
dawn. 

While he marked judgment, I, redemp- 
tion-day ; 

And such exception to a general law. 

Imperious upon inert matter even. 

Might make us, each to either, insecure. 

A beckoning mystery or a troubling fear, 

I mind me, when we parted at the door, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



How strange his good-night sounded,— 
like good-niglit 

Beside a deathbed, where the morrow's 
sun 

Is sure to come too late for more good 
days. 

And all that night I thought . . ' Good- 
night,' said he. 

And so, a month passed. Let nic set it 

down 
At once, — I have been wronc:, I have 

been wrong. 
We are wrong always when v/e think too 

much 
Of what we think or are ; albeit onr 

thoughts 
Be verily bitter as self-sacrifice. 
We're not less selfish. If we sleep oa 

rocks 
Or roses, sleeping past the hour of noon 
We're lazy. This I write against mv- 

self 
I had done a duty in the visit paid 
To Marian, and was ready otherwise 
To give the witness of my presence and 

name 
Whenever she should marry. — Which, I 

thought, 
Sufficed. I even had cast into the scale 
An overweight of justice toward the 

match ; 
The Lady Waldemar had missed lier 

tool. 
Had broken it in the lock as beins too 

straight 
For a crooked purpose, while poor Ma- 
rian Erie 
Missed nothing in my accents or my 

acts : 
I had not been ungenerous on the whole, 
Nor yet untender ; so. enough. I felt 
Tired, overworked : this marriage some- 
what jarred, 
Or, if it did not, all the bridal noise . . 
The pricking of the map of life with 

pins. 
In schemes of . . ' Here we'll go,' and 

' There we'll stay,' 
And ' everywhere we'll prosper in our 

love,' 
Was scarce my business. Let them 

order it ; 
Who else sliould caie ? 1 threw myself 

asiae. 



As one who had done her work and 
shuts her eyes 

To rest the better. 

I, who should have known, 

P^orereckoned mischief ! Where we dis- 
avow 

Being keeper to our brother we're his 
Cain. 

I might have held that poor child to my 
'neart 

A little longer ! 'twould have hurt me 
much 

To have hastened by its beats the mar- 
riage day, 

And kept her safe meantime from tamp- 
ering hands 

Or, peradventure, traps. What drew me 
back 

From telling Romney plainly the de- 
signs 

Of Lady Waldemar, as spoken out 

To me . . me ? had I any right, ay, right. 

With womanly compassion and reserve 

To break the fall of woman's impu- 
dence ? — 

To stand by calmly, knowing what I 
knew. 

And hear him call her good 1 

Distrust that word. 

' There is none good save God,' said 
Jesus Christ. 

If He once, in the tirst creation-week. 

Called creatures good, — for ever after- 
ward, 

The Devil only has done it, and his 
heirs, 

The knaves who win so, and the fools 
who lose ; 

The word's grown dangerous. In the 
middle age, 

I think they called malignant fays and 
imps 

Good people. A good neighbour, even 
in this. 

Is fatal sometimes, — cuts your morning 
up 

To mince-meat of the very smallest 
talk. 

Then helps to sugar her bohea at night 

With your reputation. 1 have known 
good wives, 

As chaste, or nearly so, as Potiphar's ; 

And good, good mothers, who would use 
a child 



73 



AURORA LEIGH. 



To better an intrigue ; good friends, 

beside, 
(Very good) who hung succinctlj' round 

your neck 
And sucked your breath, as cats are 

fabled to do 
By sleeping infants. And we all liave 

known 
Good critics who have stamped out 

poet's hopes; 
Good statesmen who pulled ruin on the 

state ; 
Good patriots who for a theory risked a 

cause ; 
Good kings who disembowelled for a 

tax^; 
Good popes who brought all good to 

jeopardy ; 
Good Christians who sate still in easy 

chairs 
And damned the general world for stand- 
ing up.— 
Now may the good God pardon all good 

men ! 

How bitterly I speak,— how certainly 
The innocent white milk in us is turned. 
By much persistent shining of tlie sun ! 
Shake up the sweetest in us long enough 
With men, it drops to foolish curd, too 

sour 
To feed the most untender of Christ's 

lambs. 

I should have thought . . a woman of 

the world 
Like her I'm meaning, — centre to her- 
self. 
Who has wheeled on her own pivot half a 

life 
In isolated self-love and self-will, 
As a windmill seen at distance radiating 
Its delicate white vans against the sky, 
So soft and soundless, simply beautiful, 
Seen nearer . . what a roar and tear it 

makes, 
How it grinds and bruises ! . . if she 

loves at last 
Her love's a e-adjustment of self-love, 
No more ; a need felt of another's use 
To her one advantage, — as the mill wants 

grain, 
The fire wants fuel, the very wolf wants 

prey. 
And none of these is more unscrupulous 



Than such a charming woman w!ien she 
loves. 

She'll not be thwarted by an obstacle 

So trifling as . . her soul is, . . much 
less yours ! — 

Is God a consideration ?— she \o\t.%you. 

Not God ; she will not flinch for Him 
indeed: 

She did not for the Marchioness of 
Perth, 

When wanting tickets for the fancy-ball. 

She loves you, sir, with passion, to luna- 
cy ; 

She loves you like her diamonds . . al- 
most. 

Well, 

A month passed so, and then the notice 
came ; 

On such a day the marriage at the 
church. 

I was not backward. 

Half St. Giles in frieze 

Was bidden to meet St. James in cloth 
of gold. 

And, after contract at the altar, pass 

To eat a marriage feast on Hampstead 
Heath. 

Of course the people came in uncom- 
pelled, 

Lame, blind, and worse — sick, sorrowful, 
and worse, 

The humours of the peccant social 
wound 

All pressed out, poured down upon Pim- 
lico. 

Exasperating the unaccustomed air 

With hideous interfusion : you'd sup- 
pose 

A finished generation, dead of plague. 

Swept outward from their graves into 
the sun. 

The moil of death upon them. Wliat a 
sight ! 

A holiday of miserable men 

Is sadder than a burial-day of kings. 

They clogged the streets, they oozed into 

the church 
In a dark slow stream like blood. l"o 

see that sight. 
The noble ladies stood up in their pews, 
Some pale for fear, a few as red for hate. 
Some simply curious, some just insolent. 
And some in wondering scorn, — ' What 

ne.\t? what next? * 



AURORA LEIGH. 



These crushed their delicate rose-lips 
from the smile 

That misbecame ihem in a holy place, 

^Vith broidered hems of perfumed hand- 
kerchiefs : 

Those passed the salts with confidence 
of eyes 

And simultaneous shiver of moire silk ; 

While all the aisles, alive and black 
with heads, 

Crawled slowly toward the altar from 
the street, 

As bruised snakes crawl and hiss out of 
a hole 

With shuddering involution, swaying 
slow 

From right to left, and then from left 
to right. 

In pants and pauses. What an ugly 
crest 

Of faces rose upon you everywhere 

From that crammed mass ! you did not 
usualljr 

See faces like them in the open day : 

Tiiey hide in cellars, not to make you 
mad 

As Romney Leigh is. — Faces ! — O my 
God, 

We call those, faces ? men's and wo- 
men's . . ay, 

And children's ;— babies, hanging like a 
rag 

Forgotten on their mother's neck, — poor 
mouths. 

Wiped clean of mother's milk by moth- 
er' s blow 

Before they are taught her cursing. 
Faces ? . . phew, 

We'll call them vices festering to des- 
pairs, 

Or sorrows petrifying to vices : not 

A finger- touch of God left whole on 
them ; 

All ruined, lost— the countenance worn 
out 

As the garment, the v/ill dissolute as the 
act; 

The passions loose and drangling in the 
dirt 

To trip the foot up at the first free 
step ! 

Those, faces ! 'twas as if you had stirred 
up hell 

To heave its lowest dreg-fiends upper- 
most 



In fiery swirls of slime,— such strangled 

fronts, 
Such obdurate jaws were thrown up 

constantly 
To twit you with your race, corrupt 

your blood, 
And grind to devlish colours all your 

dreams 
Henceforth, . . though, haply, you 

should drop asleep 
By clink of silver waters, in a muse 
Oil Raffael's mild Madonna of the Bird. 

I've waked and slept through many 

nights and days 
Since then, — but still that day will catch 

my breath 
Like a niglUmare. There are fatal days, 

indeed. 
In which the fibrous years have taken 

root 
So deeply, that they quiver to their tops 
Whene'ie you stir the dust of such a day. 

My cousin met me with his eyes and 
hand, 

And then, with just a word, . . that 
' Marian Erie 

M'as coming with her bridesmaids 
presently,' 

Made haste to place me by tl:e altar- 
stair, 

Where he and other noble gentlemen 

And high-born ladies, waited for the 
bride. 

We waited. It was early : there was 

time 
For greeting, and the morning's com- 
pliment ; 
And gradually a ripple of women's talk 
Arose and fell, and tossed about a spray 
Of English js, soft as a silent hush. 
And, notwithstanding, quite as audible 
As louder phrases thrown out by the men. 
— ' Yes, really, if we need to wait iu 

church. 
We need to talk there.' — 'She? 'Tis 

Lady Ayr, 
In blue — not purple I that's the dow- 
ager.' 
— ' She looks as young.' — ' She flirts as 

young, you mean. 
Why if you had seen her upon Thursday 
night, 



74 



AURORA LEIGH. 



You'd call Miss Norris modest.' — ' Yotc 
again ! 

I waltzed with j'ou three hours back. 
Up at six, 

Up still at ten : scarce time to change 
one's shoes. 

I feel as white an^ sulky as a ghost, 

So pray don't speak to me, Lord Belch- 
er.' — ' No, 

I'll look at you instead, and it's enough 

While you have that face.' — ' In church, 
my lord ! fie, fie !' 

— 'Adair, you stayed for the Division ?' 

By one.' — ' The devil it is ! I'm sorry 

for't. 
And if I had not promised Mistress 

Grove ' . . 
— ' You might have kept your word to 

Liverpool.' 
' Constituents must remember, after all. 
We're mortal.' — ' We remind them of it.' 

—'Hark, 
The bride comes ! Here she comes, ia 

a stream of milk ! ' 
— ' There ? Dear, you are asleep still ; 

don't you know 
The five Miss Granvilles? always dress- 
ed in wiiite 
To show they're ready to be married.' — 

' Lower ! 
The aunt is at your elbow.'—' Lady 

Maud, 
Did Lady Waldemar tell you she had 

seen 
This girl of Leigh's ? '— ' No,— wait ! 

'twas Mistress Brookes, 
Who told me Lady Waldemar told 

her — 
No, 'twasn't Mrs. Brookes.' — ' She's 

pretty ?'—' Who? 
Mrs. Brookes? Lady Waldemar?' — 

' How hot ! 
Pray is't the law to-day we're not to 

breathe ? 
You're treading on my shawl— I thank 

you, sir ' 
— ' Tiiey say the bride's a mere child, who 

can't read, 
But knows the things she shouldn't, with 

wide-awake 
Great eyes. I'd go through fire to look 

at her.' 
— ' You do, I think.'— 'And Lady Walde- 
mar 



(You see her; sitting close to Romney 
Leigh ; 

How beautiful she looks, a little flush- 
ed !) 

Has taken up the girl, and methodised 

Leigh's folly. Should 1 have come here, 
you suppose, 

Except she'd asked me?'—' She'd liave 
served him more 

By marrying him herself.' 

' Ah — there she comes, 

The bride, at last ! ' 

' Indeed, no. Past eleven. 

She puts ofif iier patched petticoat to-day 

And puts on May-fair manners, so be- 
gins 

By setting us to wait.' — ' Yes, yes, this 
Leigh 

Was always odd ; it's in the blood, I 
think ; 

His father's uncle's cousin's second son 

Was, was . . you understand me— and 
for him, 

He's stark !— has turned quite lunatic 
upon 

This modern question of the poor— the 
poor : 

An excellent subject when you're mode- 
rate ; 

You've seen Prince Albert's model lodg- 
ing-house ? 

Does iionour to his royal highness. 
Good ! 

But would he stop his carriage in Cheap- 
side 

To shake a common fellow by the fist 

Whose name was . . Shakspeare? no. 
We draw a line, 

And if we stand not by our order, we 

In England, we fall headlong. Here's a 
sight,— 

A hideous sight, a most indecent sight 

My wife would come, sir, or 1 had kept 
her back. 

By heaven, sir, when poor Damiens' 
trunk and limbs 

Were torn by horses, women of the 
court 

Stood by and stared, exactly as ro-da-y ' 

On tliis dismembering of society, 

With pretty troubled faces.' 

' Now, at last. 
She comes now.' 

' Where? who sees' you push me, sir, 
Beyond the point of what is mannerly. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



75 



You're standing, madanri, on my second 

flounce 
I do beseech you.' 

' No— it's not the bride. 
Half-past eleven. How late. The 

bridegroom, mark. 
Gets anxious and goes out.' 

' And as I said, 
These Leighs ! our best blood running in 

the rut ! 
It's something awful. We had pardoned 

him 
A simple misalliance, got up aside 
For a pair of sky-blue eyes ; our House 

of Lords 
.Has winked at such things, and we've 

all been young. 
But here's an inter-marriage reasoned 

out, 
A contract (carried boldly to the light 
To challenge observation, pioneer 
Good acts by a great example) 'twixt the 

extremes 
Of martyrised society, — on the left 
'4;iie well-born,— on the right the merest 

mob, 
To treat as equals !— 'tis anarchical ! 
it means more than it says— 'tis damna- 
ble. 
Why, sir, v/o can't have even our coffee 

good, 
Unless we strain it.' 

' Here, Miss Leigh ! ' 

' Lord Howe, 
You're Romney's friend. What's all 

this waiting for ? ' 

' I cannot tell. *The bride has lost her 
head 

(And, way perhaps !) to prove her sym- 
pathy 

With the bridegroom,' 

' What, —you also disapprove !' 

' Oh, / approve of nothing in the world,' 
He answered; 'not of you, still less of 

me. 
Nor even of Romney— though he's 

worth us both. 
We're all gone wrong. The tune in us 

is lost : 
And wliistHng down back alleys to the 

moon, 
Will never catch it. 



Let me draw Lord Howe ; 
A born aristocract, bred radical. 
And educated socialist, who still 
Goes floating, on traditions of his kind, 
Across the theoretic flood from France, 
Though, like a drenched Noah on a rot- 
ten deck. 
Scarce safer for his place there. He, at 

least, 
Will never land on Ararat, he knows, 
To recommence the world on the new 

plan : 
Indeed, he thinks, said world had better 

end ; 
He sympathises rather with the fish 
Outside, than with the drowned paired 

beasts within 
Who cannot couple again or multiply : 
And that's the sort of Noah he is, Lord 

Howe. 
He never could be anything complete, 
Except a loyal, upright gentleman, 
A liberal landlord, graceful diner-out, 
And entertainer more than hospitable. 
Whom authors dine with and forget the 

hock 
Whatever he believes, and it is much, 
But no-wise certain . . now here and 

now there. 
He still has sympathies beyond his creed 
Diverting him from action. In the 

House, 
No party counts upon him, while for all 
His speeches have a noticeable weight. 
Men like his books too, (he has written 

books) 
Which, safe to lie beside a bishop's 

chair. 
At times outreach themselves with jets 

of fire 
At which the foremost of the progress- 
ists 
May warm audacious hands in passing 

by- 

— Of stature over-tall, lounging for ease ; 
Light hair, that seems to carry a wind 

in it. 
And eyes that, when they look on you, 

will lean 
Their whole weight half in indolence 

and half 
In wishing you unmitigated good. 
Until you know not ifto flincli from him 
Or thank him.— 'Tis Lord Howe. 

• We're all gone wrong,' 



76 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Said he, ' and Romney, that dear friend 

of ours, 
Is no-wise right. There's one true 

thing on earth ; 
That's love ! He takes it np, and 

dresses it, 
And acts a play with it, as Hamlet did, 
'I'o show what cruel uncles we have 

been , 
And how we should be uneasy in our 

minds 
While he, Prince Hamlet, weds a pretty 

maid 
(Who keeps us too long waiting, we'll 

confess) 
By symbol, to instruct us formally 
To fill the ditches up 'twixt class and 

class. 
And live together in phalansteries. 
What then ? — he's mad, our Hamlet ! 

clap his play, 
And bind him.' 

' Ah, Lord Howe, this spectacle 
Pulls stronger at us than the Dane's. 

See there ! 
The crammed aisles heave and strain and 

steam with life — 
Dear Heaven, what life ! ' 

' Why, yes, — a poet sees ; 
Which makes liim different from a com- 
mon man. 
7, too, see somewhat, though I cannot 

sing ; 
I should have been a poet, only that 
My mother took, fright at the ugly 

world. 
And bore me tongue-tied. If you'll grant 

me now 
That Romney gives us a fine actor-piece 
To make us merry on his marriage- 
morn, 
The fable's worse than Hamlet's, I'll 

concede. 
The terrible people, old and pour and 

blind. 
Their eyes eat out with i)Iague and 

poverty 
From seeing beautiful and clieerful sights. 
We'll liken to a brutaiised King Lear, 
Led out, — by no means to clear scores 

with wrongs — 
His wrongs are so far back, . . he has 

forgot ; 
All's past like youth ; but just to witness 

here 



A simple contract, — he, upon his side, 

And Regan with her sister Goneril 

And all the dappled courtiers and court- 
fools, 

On their side. Not that any of these 
would say 

They're sorry, neither. What is done, 
is done, 

And violence is now turned privilege. 

As cream turns cheese, if buried long 
enough. 

Wliat could such lovely ladies have to do 

With the old man there, in those ill- 
odorous rags. 

Except to keep the wind-side of him ? 
Lear 

Is flat and quiet, as a decent grave ; 

He does not curse his daughters in the 
least. 

Be these his daughters? Lear is think- 
ing of . • . . 

His porridge chiefly . . is it getting cold 

At Hampstead ? will the ale be served in 
pots ? 

Poor Lear, poor daughters ! Bravo, 
Romney's play ! ' 

A murmur and a movement drew 

around ; 
A naked whisper touched us. Some- 
thing wrong ! 
What's wrong? The black crowd, as an 

overstrained 
Cord, quivered in vibration, and I 

saw . . 
Was that his face I saw? . . his . . 

Romney Leigh's . . 
Which tossed a sudden horror like a 

sponge 
Into all eyes,— while himself stood white 

upon 
The topmost altar-stair, and tried to 

speak, 
And failed, and lifted higher above his 

head 
A letter, . . as a man wlio drowns and 

gasps. 

' My brothers, bear with me ! I am 
very weak. 

I meant but only good. Perhaps I 
meant 

Too proudly, — and God snaiched the cir- 
cumstance 



AURORA LEIGH. 



77 



And changed it therefoie. There's no 
marriage— none. 

She leaves me,— she departs, — she dis- 
appears, 

I lose her. Yet I never forced her 'ay,' 

To have her ' no ' so cast into my teeth, 

In manner of an accusation, thus. 

My friends, you are dismissed. Go, eat 
and drink 

According to the programme, — and fare- 
well !' 

He ended. Tliere was silence in the 

church ; 
We lieard a baby sucking in its sleep 
At the farthest end of the aisle. Then 

spoke a man, 
' Now, look to it, coves, that all the beef 

and drink 
Be not filched from us like the other 

fun ; 
For beer's spilt easier than a woman's 

. '°st ! 
This gentry is not honest witli the jioor ; 
They bring us up, to trick us.' — ' Go it, 

Jim, ' 
A woman screamed back, — ' I'm a tender 

soul, 
I never banged a child at two years old 
And drew blood from him, but I sobbed 

for it 
Next moment, — and I've had a plague 

of seven. 
I'm tender; I've no stomach even for 

beef. 
Until I know about the girl that's lost, 
That's killed, mayhap. I did misdoubt, 

at first. 
The fine lord meant no [;ood by her or 

us. 
He, maybe, got the upper hand of her 
By holding up a wedding-ring, and 

then . . 
A choking finger on her throat last 

night. 
And just a clever tale to keep us still. 
As she is, poor lost innocent. ' Disap- 
pear ! ' 
Who ever disappears except a ghost ? 
And who believes a story of a ghost ? 
I ask you, — would a girl go off, instead 
Of staying to be married? a fine tale ! 
A wicked man, I say, a wicked man ! 
For my part I would rather starve on 

gin 



Than make my dinner on his beef and 

beer.' — 
At which a cry rose up — ' We'll have 

our rights. 
We'll have the girl, the girl ! Your la- 
dies there 
Are married safely and smoothly every 

day, 
And she shall not drop through into a 

trap 
Because she's poor and ot the people : 

shame ! 
We'll have no tricks played off by gentle- 
folks ; 
We'll see her righted.' 

'I'hrough the rage and roar 
I heard the broken words wiiich Romney 

flung 
Among the turbulent masses, from the 

ground 
He held still with his masterful pale 

face — 
As huntsmen throw the ration to the 

pack. 
Who, falling on it headlong, dog on dog 
In heaps of fury, rend it, swallow it up 
With yelling hound-jaws, — his indignant 

words, 
His suppliant words, his most pathetic 

words. 
Whereof I caught the meaning here and 

there 
By his gestine . . torn in morsels, yelled 

across, 
And so devoured. From end to end, 

the church 
Rocked round us like the sea in storm, 

and then 
Broke up like the earth in earthquake. 

Men cried out, 
' Police ' — and women stood and shrieked 

for God, 
Or dropt and swooned; or, like a herd 

of deer, 
(For whom the black woods suddenly 

grow alive, 
Unleashing their wild shadows down the 

wind 
To hunt the creatures into corners, bade 
And forward) madly fled, .or blindly fell. 
Trod screeching underneath the feet of 

those 
Who fled and screeched. 

The last sight left to nu; 
Was Rnmney's terrible calm faco above 



73 



AURORA LEIGH. 



The tumult ! — the last sound was ' Pull 

him down ! 
Strike— kill him ! ' Stretching my un- 
reasoning arms, 
As men in dreams, who vainly interpose 
'Twixt gods and their undoing, with a 

cry 
I struggled to precipitate myself 
Head-foremost, to the rescue of my soul 
In that white face, . .till some one 

caught me back, 
And so the world went out, — I felt no 
more. 

What followed, was told after by Lord 
Howe, 

Who bore me senseless from the strang- 
ling crowd 

In dunch and street, and then returned 
alone 

To see the tumult quelled. The men of 
law 

Had fallen as thunder on a roaring fire. 

And made all silent,— while the people's 
smoke 

Passed eddying slowly from the emptied 
aisles. 

Here's Marian's letter, which ;i ragged 

child 
Brought running, just as Romney at the 

porch 
Looked out expectant of the bride. He 

sent 
The letter to me by his friend Lord 

Howe 
Some two hours after, folded in a sheet 
On which his well known hand had left 

a word. 
Here's Marian's letter. 

' Noble friend, dear saint, 
I^e patient with me. Never think me 

vile. 
Who might to-morrow morning be your 

wife 
But that I loved you more than such a 

name. 
Farewell, my Romney. Let me write it 

once, — 
My Romney. 

' 'Tfs so pretty a coupled word, 
I have no heart to pluck it with a blot. 
We say ' my God ' sometimes, upon our 

knees, 



Who is not therefore vexed: so bear 

with it . . 
And me. I know I'm foolish, weak, and 

vain ; 
Yet most of all I'm angry with myself 
For losing your last footstep on the stair 
The last time of your coming, — yester- 
day ! 
The very first time I lost step of yours, 
(Us sweetness comes the next to what 

you speak) 
But yesterday sobs took mc by the 

throat 
And cut me off from music. 

' Mister Leigh, 
You'll set me down as wrong in many 

things. 
You've praised me, sir, for truth, — and 

now you'll learn 
I had not courage to be rightly true. 
I once began to tell you how she came. 
The woman . . and you stared upon the 

floor 
In one of your fixed thoughts . . which 

put me out 
For that day. After, some one spoke 

of me, 
So wisely, and of you, so tenderly, 
Persuading me to silence for your sake . . 
Well, well ! it seems this moment I was 

wrong 
In keeping back from telling you the 

truth : 
There might be truth betwixt us two, at 

least, 
If nothing else. And yet 'twas danger- 
ous. 
Suppose a real angel came from heaven 
To live with men and women ! he'd go 

mad. 
If no considerate hand should tie a blind 
Across his piercing eyes. 'Tis thus 

with you: 
You see us too much in your heavenly 

light ; 
I always thought so, angel,— and indeed 
There's danger that you beat yourself to 

death 
Against the edges of this alien world, 
In some divine and fluttering pitv. 

' ^'^^: 
It would be dreadful for a friend of 

yours, 
To see all England thrust you out of 

doors 



AURORA LEIGH. 



79 



And mock you from the windows. You 

might say, 
Or think (that's worse,) 'There's some 

one in the house 
I miss and love still.' Dreadful ! 

' Very kind, 
I pray you mark, was Lady Waldemar. 
She came to see me nine times, rather 

ten — 
So beautiful, she hurts one like the day 
Let suddenly on sick eyes. 

' Most kind of all. 
Your cousin ! — ah, most like you 1 Ere 

you came 
She kissed me mouth to mouth: I felt 

her soul 
Dip through her serious lips in holy 

fire. 
God help me, but it made me arrogant ; 
I almost told her that you would not 

lose 
By taking me to wife : though ever since 
I've pondered much a certain thing she 

asked . . 
* He loves you, Marian?' . . in a sort 

of mild 
Derisive sadnesss . . as a mother asks 
Her babe, ' You'll touch that star, vou 

think?' 

' Farewell ! 
I know I never touched it. 

' This is worst : 
Babes grow, and lose the hope of things 

above ; 
A silver threepence sets them leaping 

high— 
But no more stars ! mark that. 

' I've writ all night. 
Yet told you nothing. God, if I could 

die. 
And let this letter break off innocent 
Just here ! But no — for your sake . . 

' Here's the last : 
I never could be happy as your wife, 
I never could be harmless as your friend, 
I never will look more into your face 
Till God says, ' Look !' I charge you, 

seek me not. 
Nor vex yourself with lamentable 

thoughts 
That peradventure I have come to grief; 
Be sure I'm well, I'm merry, I'm at 

ease. 
But such a long wav, long way, long way 

off, 



I think you'll find me sooner in nir 

grave ; 
And that's my choice, observe. For 

what remains, 
An over-generous friend will care for nie 
And keep me happy . . happier . . 

'There's a blot ! 
This ink runs thick . . we light girls 

lightly weep . . 
And keep me happier . . was the thing 

to say. 
Than as your wife I could be I — O, my 

star. 
My saint, my soul ! for surely you're my 

soul. 
Through whom God touched me ! I am 

not so lost 
I cannot thank you for the good 30U did, 
The tears you stopped, which fell down 

bitterly. 
Like these— the times you made me weep 

for joy 
At hoping I should learn lo write your 

notes 
And save the tiring cf your eyes, r.t 

night ; 
And most for that sweet thrice you kiss- 
ed my lips 
And said ' Dear Marian ' 

' 'Twould be hard to read, 
This letter, for a reader half as learn'd. 
But you'll be sure to master it in spite 
Of ups and downs. My hand shakes, I 

am blind, 
I'm poor at writing at the best, — and yet 
I tried to make my ^3 the way you 

showed. 
Farewell — Christ love you. — Say ' Poor 

Marian' now.' 

Poor Marian ! — wanton Marian ! — was 

it so, 
Or so? For days, her touching, foolish 

lines 
We mused on with conjectural fantasy, 
As if some riddle of a summer-cloud 
On which one tries unlike similitudes 
Of now a spotted Hydra-skin cast off. 
And now a screen of carven ivory 
That shuts the heaven's conventual se- 
crets up 
From mortals over-bold. We sought the 

sense : 
She loved him so perhaps (such words 
mean love,) 



8o 



AURORA LEIGH. 



That, worked on by some shrewd per- 
fidious tongue, 
(And tlien I thought of Lady Walde- 

mar) 
She left him, not to hurt him ; or per- 

liaps 
She loved one in her class, — or did not 

love, 
But mused upon her wild bad tramping 

life 
Until the free blood fluttered at her 

heart, 
And black bread eaten by the road-side 

hedge 
Seemed sweeter than being put to Rom- 

ney's school 
Of pliilanthropical self-sacrifice, 
Irrevocably. — Girls are girls, beside, 
Thought I, and like a wedding by one 

rule. 
You seldom catch these birds except 

with chaff: 
They feel it almost an immoral thing 
To go out and be married in broad day, 
Unless some winning special flattery 

should 
Excuse them to themselves for't, . . ' No 

one parts 
Her hair with such a silver line as you, 
One moonbeam from the forehead to the 

crown ! ' 
Or else . . ' You bite your lip in such a 

way, 
It spoils me for the smiling of the rest ' — 
And so on. Then a worthless gaud or 

two 
To keep for love, — a ribbon for the neck. 
Or some glass pin, — they have their 

weight with girls. 

And Romney sought her many days and 

weeks : 
He sifted all the refuse of the town. 
Explored the trains, inquired among the 

ships, 
And felt the country through from end to 

end ; 
No Marian !- Though I hinted what I 

knew, — 
A friend of his had reasons of her own 
For tinowing back the match — he would 

not hear : 
The lady Jiad been ailing ever since, ^ 
Tlie shock had harmed her. Sometlung 

in his tone 



Repressed me ; something in me shamed 

my doubt 
To a sigh repressed too. He went on to 

That, puttmg questions where his Ma- 
rian lodged. 

He found she had received for visitors. 

Besides himself and Lady Waldemar 

And, that once, me — a dubious woman 
dressed 

Beyond us both. The rings upon her 
hands 

Had dazed the children when she threw 
them pence ; 

' She wore her bonnet as the queen might 
hers. 

To show the crown,' they said, — ' a scar- 
let crown 

Of roses that had never been in bud.' 

When Romney told me that,— for now 

and then 
He came to tell me how the search ad- 
vanced. 
His voice dropped : I bent forward for 

the rest ; 
The woman had been with her, it ap- 
peared. 
At first from week to week, then day by 

day, 
And last, 'twas sure . . 

I looked upon the grountl 
I'o escape the anguish of his eyes, and 

asked 
As low as when 3'ou speak to mourners 

new 
Of those they cannot bear yet to call 

dead, 
' If Marian had as much as named to 

him 
A certain Rose, an early friend of hers, 
A ruined creature.' 

' Never.'- Starting up 
He strode from side to side about the 

room, 
Most like some prisoned lion sprung 

awake, 
Who has felt the desert sting him through 

his dreams. 
' What was I to her that she should tell 

me aught ? 
A friend! was / a friend? I see all 

clear. 
Such devils would pull angels out ol' 
heaven, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Provided they could reacli them ; 'tis 
their pride ; 

And that's the odds 'twixt soul and body- 
plague ! 

The veriest slave who drops in Cairo's 
street, 

Cries. ' Stand off from me,' to the pass- 
engers ; 

While these blotched souls are eager to 
infect. 

And blow their bad breath in a sister's 
face 

As if they got some ease by it.' 

I broke througli. 

' Some natures catch no plagues. I've 
read of babes 

Found whole and sleeping by the spotted 
breast 

Of one a full day dead. I hold it true. 

As I'm a woman and know womanhood, 

That Marian Erie, however lured from 
place, 

Deceived in way, keeps pure in aim and 
heart 

As snow that's drifted from the garden- 
bank 

To the open road.' 

'Twas hard to hear liim laugh. 

• The figure's happy. Well — a dozen 
carts 

And trampers will secure yoii presendy 

A fine white snow-drift. Leave it there, 
your snow ! 

'Twill pass for soot ere sunset. Pure in 
aim? 

She's pure ia aim, I grant you,— like 
myself. 

Who thought to take the world upon my 
back 

To carry it o'er a chasm of social ill, 

And end by letting slip through impo- 
tence 

A single soul, a child's weight in a soul, 

Straight down the pit of hell ! yes, I and 
she 

Have reason to be proud of our pure 
aims.' 

Then softly, as the last repenting drops 

Of a thunder-shower, he added, ' The 
poor child ; 

Poor Marian ! 'twas a luckless day for 
her, 

When first she chanced on my philan- 
thropy.' 



He drew a chair beside me, and sate 

down ; 
And I, instinctively, as women use 
Before a sweet friend's grief, — when, in 

his ear. 
They hum the tune of comfort though 

themselves 
Most ignorant of the special words of 

such, 
And quiet so and fortify his brain 
And give it time and strength for feeling 

out 
To reach the availing sense beyond that 

sound, — 
Went murmuring to him what, if written 

here. 
Would seem not much, yet fetched him 

better help 
Than, peradventure, if it had been more. 

I've known the pregnant thinkers of our 
time. 

And stood by breathless, hanging on 
their lips. 

When some chromatic sequence of fine 
thought 

In learned modulation phrased itself 

To an unconjectured harmony of truth. 

And yet I've been more moved, more 
raised, I say. 

By a simple word . . a broken easy 
thing 

A three-years infant might at need re- 
peat. 

A look, a sigh, a touch upon the palm, 

Wliich meant less than ' I love you * . . 
than by all 

The full-voiced rhetoric of those master- 
mouths. 

* Ah, dear Aurora,' he began at last, 

His pale lips fumbling for a sort of smile, 

' Your printer's devils have not spoilt 
your heart : 

That's well. And who knows but, long 
years ago. 

When you and I talked, you were some- 
what right 

In being so peevish with me ? You, at 
least. 

Have ruined no one through your dreams. 
Instead, 

You've helped the facile youth live 
youth's day 

With innocent distraction, still perhaps 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Suggestive of things better tlian your 
rhymes. 

The little shepherd-maiden, eight years 
old, 

I've seen upon the mountains of Vau- 
cluse. 

Asleep i' the sun, her head upon her 
knees, 

The flocks all scattered,— is more lauda- 
ble 

Than any sheep-dog tramed imperfectly, 

Who bites the kids through too much 
zeal.' 

' I look 

As if I had slept, then ? ' 

He was touched at once j 
By something in my face. Indeed 'twas 

sure 
That he and I,— despite a year or two 
Of younger life on my side, and on Jiis 
The heaping of the years' work on the 

days, 
The three-hour speeches from the mem- 
ber's seat. 
The hot committees in and out of doors, 
The pamphlets, ' Arguments,' ' Collec- 
tive Views,' 
Tossed out as straw before sick houses, 

just 
To show one's sick and so be trod to dirt 
And no more use, — through this world's 

underground 
The burrowing, groping effort, whence 

the arm 
And heart come torn, — 'twas sure that 

he and I 
Were, after all, unequally fatigued ! 
That he, in Ills developed manhood, 

stood 
A little sunburnt by the glare of life ; 
While I . . it seemed no sun had shone 

on me, 
So many seasons I had missed my 

Springs ; 
My cheeks had pined and perished from 

their orbs, 
And all the youth-blood in them had 

grown white 
As dew on autumn cyclamens : alone 
My eyes and forehead answered for my 
face. 

He said, ' Aurora, you are changed— are 
iU!' 



' Not so, my cousin, — only not asleep,* 
I answered, smiling gently. ' Let it be. 
You scarcely found the poet of Vaucluse 
As drowsy as the shepherds. What is 

art 
But life upon the larger scale, the high- 
er. 
When, graduating up in a spiral line 
Of still expanding and ascending gyres. 
It pushes toward the intense significance 
Of all things, hungry for the Infinite ? 
Art's life. — and where we live, we suffer 
and toil.' 

He seemed to sift me with his painful 
eyes. 

' You take it gravely, cousin ; you re- 
fuse 

Your dreamland's right of common, and 
green rest. 

You break the mythic turf where danced 
the nymphs 

With crooked ploughs of actual life, — let 
in 

The axes to the legendary woods. 

To pay the head-tax. You are fallen in- 
deed 

On evil days, you poets, if yourselves 

Can praise that art of yours no other- 
wise ; 

And, if you cannot,' . . better take a 
trade 

And be of use : 'twere cheaper for your 
youth.' 

' Of use ! ' I softly echoed, ' there's the 

point 
We sweep about forever in an argu- 
ment ; 
Like swallows which the exasperate, dy- 
ing year 
Sets spinning in black circles, round and 

round. 
Preparing for far flights o'er unknown 

seas. 
And we . . where tend we ? ' 

' Where ? ' he said, and sighed. 
' The whole creation, from the hour we 

are born. 
Perplexes us with questions. Not a 

stone 
But cries behind us. every weary step, 
* Where, where ? ' I leave stones to reply 

to stones. 
Enough for me and for my fleshly heart 



AURORA LEIGH. 



To harken the invocations of my kind, 

When men catch hold upon my shudder- 
ing nerves 

And shriek, 'What help? what hope? 
what bread i' the house ? 

What fire i' the frost? ' There must be 
some response, 

Though mine fail utterly. This social 
Sphinx 

Who sits between the sepulchres and 
stews, 

Makes mock and mow against the crys- 
tal heavens, 

And bullies God,— exacts a word at least 

From each man standing on the side of 
God, 

However paying a sphinx-price for it. 

We pay it also if we hold our peace, 

In pangs and pity. Let me speak and 
die. 

Alas ! you'll say I speak and kill in- 
stead.' 

I pressed in there. ' The best men, do- 
ing their best. 

Know peradventure least of what they 
do: 

Men usefullest i' the world, are simply 
used ; 

The nail that holds the wood, must pierce 
it first. 

And He alone who wields the hammer, 
sees 

The work advanced by the earliest blow. 
Take heart.' 

* Ah, if I could have taken yours ! ' he 

said, 

* But that's past now.' Then rising . . 

' I will take 

At least your kindness and encourage- 
ment. 

I thank you. Dear, be happy. Sing 
your songs. 

If that's your way ! but sometimes slum- 
ber too, 

Nor tire too much with following, out of 
breath. 

The rhvmes upon your mountains of De- 
light. 

Reflect, if Art be in truth the higher 
life, 

You need the lower life to stand upon 

In order to reach up unto that higher: 

And none can stand a-tiptoe in the place 

He cannot stand in with two stable feet. 



. Remember then ! — for Art's sake, hold 
your hfe.' 

We parted so. I held him in respect. 
I comprehended what he was in heart 
And sacrificial greatness. Ay, but he 
Supposed me a thing too small to deign 

to know ; 
He blew me, plainly, from the crucible, 
As some intruding, interrupting fly 
Not worth the pains of his analysis 
Absorbed on nobler subjects. Hurt a 

fly! 
He would not for the world : he's pitiful 
To flies even. 'Sing,' says he, 'and 

teaze me still. 
If that's your way, poor insect.' That's 

your way. 



FIFTH BOOK. 

Aurora Leigh, be humble. Shall I 

hope 
To speak my poems in mysterious tune 
With man aiTd nature, — with the lava- 
lymph 
That trickles from successive galaxies 
Still drop by drop adown the finger of 

God 
In still new worlds?— with summer-days 

in this. 
That scarce dare breathe they are so 

beautiful ? 
With Spring's delicious trouble in the 

ground 
Tormented by the quickened blood of 

roots, 
And softly pricked by golden crocus- 
sheaves 
In token of the harvest-time of flowers? 
With winters and with autumns, — and 

beyond 
With the human heart's large seasons, 

when it hopes 
And fears, joys, grieves, and loves? — 

with all that strain 
Of sexual passion, which devours the 

flesh 
In a sacrament of souls ? with mother's 

breasts 
Which, round the new-made creatures 

hanging there. 
Throb luminous and harmonious like 

pure spheres ? — 



84 



AURORA LEIGH. 



With multitudinous life, and finally 
With the great escapings of ecstatic souls, 
Who, in a rush of too long prisoned 

flame, 
Their radiant faces upward, burn away 
This dark of the body, issuing on a 

world 
Beyond our mortal?— can I speak my 

verse 
So plainly in tune to these things and the 

rest. 
That men shall feel it catch them on iho 

quick, 
As liaving the same warrant over them 
To hold and move them if they will or 

no, 
Alike imperious as the primal rhythm 
Of that theurgic nature? I must fail, 
Who fail at the beginning to hold and 

move 
One man, — and he my cousin, and he 

my friend, 
And he born tender, made intelligent, 
Inclined to ponder the precipitous sides 
Of difficult questions ; yet obtuse to ine, 
Oitne, incurious ! likes me very well, 
And wishes me a paradise of good, 
Good looks, good means, and good di- 
gestion,— ay. 
But otherwise evades me, puts me olf 
With kindness, with a tolerant gentle- 
ness, — 
Too light a book for a grave man's read- 
ing ! Go, 
Aurora Leigh : be humble. 

There it is, 
We women are too apt to look to one. 
Which proves a certain impotence in 

art. 
We strain oui natures at doing something 

great, 
Far less because it's sometlnng great to 

do. 
Than haply that we, so, commend our- 
selves 
As being not small, and more apprecia- 
ble 
To some one friend. We must have 

mediators 
Betwixt our highest conscience and the 

judge ; 
Some sweet saint's blood must quicken 

in our palms 
Or all the life in heaven seems slow and 
cold: 



Good only being perceived as the end of 
good. 

And God alone pleased, — that's too poor, 
we think, 

And not enough for us by any means. 

Ay — Romney, I remember, told me once 

We miss the abstract, when we compre- 
hend. 

We miss it most when we aspire, . . and 
fail. 

Yet, so, I will not. — This vile woman's 

way 
Of trailing garments, shall not trip me 

up. 
I'll have no traffic with the personal 

thought 
In art's pure temple. Must I work in 

vain. 
Without the approbation of a man ? 
It cannot be ; it shall not. Fame itself, 
That approbation of the general race. 
Presents a poor end, (though the arrow 

speed, 
Shot straight with vigorous finger to the 

white,) 
And the highest fame was never reached 

except 
By what was aimed above it. Art for 

art, 
And good for God Himself, the essen- 
tial Good ! 
We'll keep our aims sublime, our eyes 

erect, 
Although our woman hands should shake 

and fail ; 
And if we fail . . But must we? — 

Shall I fail? 
The Greeks said grandly in their tragic 

. phrase, 
' Let no one be called happy till his 

death.' 
To which I add, — Let no one till his 

death 
Be called unhappy. Measure not the 

work 
Until the day's out and the labour done ; 
Then bring your gauges. If the day's 

work's scant. 
Why, call it scant ; affect no compro- 
mise ; 
And, in that we have nobly stiven at 

least. 
Deal with us nobly, women though we 

be, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



8=; 



And honor us with trutli if not with 
praise. 

My ballads prospered ; but the ballad's 

race 
Is rapid for a poet who bears weights 
Of thought and golden image. He can 

stand 
Like Atlas, in the sonnet,— and support 
His own heavens pregnant with dynastic 

stars ; 
But then he must stand still, nor take a 

step. 

In that descriptive poem called 'The 
Hills,' 

The prospects were too far and indis- 
tinct. 

'Tis true my critics said, ' A fine view, 
that ! ' 

The public scarcely cared to climb the 
book 

For even the finest ; and the public's 
" right, 

A tree's mere firewood, imless human- 
ised ; 

Which well the Greeks knew when they 
stirred its bark 

With close-pressed bosoms of subsiding 
nymphs, 

And made the forest-rivers garrulous 

With babble of gods. For us, we are 
called to mark 

A still more intimate humanity 

In this inferior nature, — or, ourselves, 

Must fall like dead leaves trodden un- 
derfoot 

By veritable artists. Earth, shut up 

By Adam, like a fakir in a box 

Left too long buried, remained stiff and 
dry, 

A mere dumb corpse, till Christ the T>ord 
came down, 

Unlocked the doors, forced open the 
blank eyes, 

And used His kingly chrism to straighten 
out 

The leathery tongue turned back into 
the throat : 

Since when, she lives, remembers, pal- 
pitates 

In every limb, aspires in every breath, 

Embraces infinite relations. Now 

We want no half-gods, Panomphsean 
Jovcs, 



Fauns, Naiads, Tritons. Oreads, and 

the rest, 
To take possession of a senseless world 
'I'o unnatural vampyre-uses. See the 

earth. 
The body of our body, the green earth, 
Indubitably human like this flesh 
And these articulated veins through 

which 
Our heart drives blood ! there's not a 

flower of spring 
That dies ere June, but vaunts itself al- 
lied 
By issue and symbol, by significance 
And correspondence, totliat spirit-world 
Outside the limits of our space and 

time. 
Whereto we are bound. Let poets give 

it voice 
With human meanings ; else they miss 

the thought. 
And henceforth step down lower, stand 

confessed 
Instructed poorly for interpreters, 
'J'hrown out by an easy cowslip in the 

text. 

Even so my pastoral failed : it was a 

book 
Of surface-pictures — pretty, cold, and 

false 
With literal transcript, — the worse done, 

I think, 
For being not ill-done. Let me set my 

mark 
Against such doings, and do otJierwise. 
This strikes me. — If the public whom 

we know. 
Could catch me at such admissions, I 

should pass 
For being right modest. Yet how proud 

we are, 
In daring to look down upon ourselves ! 

The critics say that epics have died out 
With Agamemnon and the goat-nursed 

gods— 
I'll not believe it. I could never deem 
As Payne Knight did, (the mythic moun- 
taineer 
Who travelled higher than he was born 

to live, 
And showed sometimes the goitre in his 
throat 



AURORA LF.IGH. 



Discoursing of an image seen through 

fog,) 
That Homer's heroes measurad twelve 

feet high. 
They were but men : — his Helen's hair 

turned gray 
Like any plain Miss Smith's, who wears 

a front ; 
And Hector's infant Avhimpered at a 

plume. 
All actual heroes are essential men, 
And all men possible heroes : every age. 
Heroic in proportions, double-faced, 
Looks backward and before, expects a 

morn 
And claims an epos. 

Ay, but every age 
Appears to souls who live in 't, (ask 

Carlyle) 
Most unheroic. Ours, for instance, 

ours : 
The thinkers scout it, and the poets 

abound 
Who scorn to touch it with a finger-tip : 
A pewter age,— mixed metal, silver- 
washed ; 
An age of scum, spooned off the richer 

past, 
An age of patches for old gaberdines, _ 
An age of mere transition, meaning 

nought 
Except that what succeeds must shame 

it quite 
If God please. That's \\xo\\% thinking, 

to my mind, 
And wrong thoughts make poor poems. 

Every a^c. 
Through being beheld too close, is lU- 

discerned 
By those who have not lived past it. 

We'll suppose 
Mount Athos carved, as Alex.ander 

schemed. 
To some colossal statue of a man : 
The peasants, gathering brushwood in 

his ear. 
Had guessed as little as the browsing 

goats 
Of form or feature of humanity 
Up there, — in fact, had travelled five 

miles off 
Or ere the giant image broke on tliem, 
Full human profile, nose and chin dis- 
tinct, 



Mouth, muttering rhythms c/ silence up 

the sky. 
And fed at evening with the blood of 

suns ; 
Grand torso, — hand that flung perpetual- 

The largesse of a silver river down 

To all the country pastures. 'Tis even 

thus 
With times we live in, — evermore too 

great 
To be apprehended near. 

But poets should 
Exert a double vision ; should have eyes 
To see near things as comprehensively 
As if afar they took their point of sight. 
And distant things as intimately deep 
As if they touched them. Let us' strive 

for this. 
I do distrust the poet who discerns 
No character or glory in his times, 
And trundles back his soul five hundred 

years. 
Past moat and drawbridge, into a castle- 
court, 
To sing — oh not of lizard or of toad 
Alive i' the ditch there, — 'twere excusa- 
ble ; 
But of some black chief, half knight, lialf 

sheep-lifter. 
Some beauteous dame, half chattel and 

half queen, 
As dead as must be, for the greater part, 
The poems made on their chivalric 

bones. 
And that's no wonder : death inherits 
death. 

Nay, if there's room for poets in this 

world 
A little overgrown, (I think there is) 
Their sole work is to represent the age, 
Their age, not Charlemagne's,— this live, 

throbbing age. 
That brawls, cheats, maddens, calculates, 

aspires, 
And spends more passion, more heroic 

heat, 
Betwixt the mirrors of its drawing- 
rooms. 
Than Roland with Iiis knights r.t 

Roncesvalles. 
To flinch from modem varnish, coat or 

flounce. 
Cry out for togas and the picturesque, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Is fatal, — faolish too. King Arilnir's 

self 
Was commonplace to Lady Guenever ; 
And Camelot to minstrels seemed as 

flat, 
As Fleet Street to our poets. 

Never flinch. 
But still, unscrupulously epic, catch 
Upon the burning lava of a song 
The full-veined, heaving, double-breast- 
ed age : 
That, when the next shall come, the men 

of that 
May touch the impress with reverent 

hand, and say 
* Behold, —behold, the paps we all have 

sucked ! 
This bosom seems to beat still, or at 

least 
It sets ours beating. This is living art, 
Which thus presents and thus records 

true life.' 

What form is best for poems ? Let me 
think 

Of forms less, and the external. Trust 
the spirit, 

As sovran nature does, to make the 
form ; 

For otherwise we only imprison spirit 

And not embody. Inward evermore 

To outward,— so in life, and so in art, 

Which still is life. . 

Five acts to make a play. 

And why not fifteen? why not ten? or 
seven ? 

What matter for the number of the 
leaves. 

Supposing the tree lives and grows? ex- 
act 

The literal unities of time and place, 

When 'tis the essence of passion to ig- 
nore 

Both time and place ? Absurd. Keep 
up the fire, 

And leave the generous flames to shape 
themselves. 

'Tis true the stage requires obsequious- 
ness 

To this or that convention ; ' exit ' here 

And ' enter ' there ; the points for clap- 
ping, fixed, 

Like Jacob's white-peeled rods beforti 
the rams : 



And all the close-curled imagery clipped 

In manner of their fleece at shearing- 
time. 

Forget to prick the galleries to the heart 

Precisely at the fourth act, — culminate 

Our five pyramidal acts with one act 
more, — 

We're lost so ! Shakspeare's ghost 
could scarcely plead 

Against our just damnation. Stand 
aside ; 

We'll muse for comfort that, last cen- 
tury, 

On this same tragic stage on which we 
have failed, 

A wigless Hamlet would have failed the 
same. 

And whosoever writes good poetry, 
Looks just to art. He does not write 

for you 
Or me, — for London or for Edinburgh ; 
He will not suffer the best critic known 
To step into his sunsliine of free thought 
And self-absorbed conception, and exact 
An inch-long swerving of the holy lines. 
If virtue done for popularity 
Defiles like vice, can art for praise or 

Iiire 
Still keep its splendour, and remain pure 

art? 
Eschew such serfdom. What the poet 

writes, 
He writes: mankind accepts it if it suits. 
And that's success : if not, the poem's 

passed 
From hand to hand, and yet from hand 

to hand. 
Until the unborn snatch it, crying out 
In pity on their fathers' being so dull, 
And that's success too. 

I will write no plays: 
Because the drama, less sublime in this, 
Makes lov/er appeals, defends more 

menially. 
Adopts the standard of the public taste 
To chalk its height on, wears a dog-chain 

round 
Its regal neck, and learns to carry and 

fetch 
The fashions of the day to please the 

day ; 
Fawns close on pit and boxes, who clap 

hands. 
Commending chiefly its docility 



A URORA LEIGH. 



And humour in stage-tricks ; or else in- 
deed 
Gets hissed at, howled at, stamped at 

like H dog, 
Or worse, we'll say. For dogs, unjustly 

kicked, 
Yell; bite at need ; but if your drama- 
tist 
(Being wronged by some five hundred 

nobodies 
Because their grosser brains most natu- 
rally 
Misjudge the fineness of his subtle wit) 
Shows teeth an almond's breadth, pro- 
tests the length 
Of a modest phrase, — ' My gentle coun- 
trymen, 
' There's something in it haply of your 

fault,'— 
Why, then, beside five hundred nobod- 
ies. 
He'll have five thousand and five thou- 
sand more 
Against him, — the whole public, — all the 

hoofs 
Of King Saul's father's asses, in full 

drove. 
And obviously deserve it. He appealed 
To these,~and why say more if they 

condemn. 
Than if they praise him?— Weep, my 

./EschyUis, 
But low and far, upon Sicilian shores ! 
For since 'twas Athens (so I read the 

myth) 
Who gave commission to that fatal 

weight 
The tortoise, cold and hard, to drop on 

thee 
And crush thee,— better cover thy bald 

head ; 
She'll hear the softest hum of Hyblan 

bee 
Before thy loudest protestation I Then 
1'he risk's still worse upon the modern 

stage ; 
T could not, for so little, accept success, 
Nor would I risk so much, iu ease and 

calm, 
For manifester gains; let those who 

prize, 
Pursue them : / stand off. 

And j-et, forbid, 
That any iireverent fancy or conceit 



Should litter in the Drama's throne-room . 

where 
The rulers of oui* art, in whose full veins 
Dynastic glories mingle, sit in strength 
And do their kingly work, — conceive, 

command. 
And, from the imagination's crucial heat. 
Catch up their men and and women all 

a- flame 
For action, all alive and forced to prove 
Their life by living out heart, brain, and 

nerve, 
Until mankind makes witness, ' These 

be men 
As we are,' and vouchsafes the greeting 

due 
To Imogen and Juliet— sweetest kin 
On art's side. 

'Tis that, honouring to its worth 
The drama, I would fear to keep it down 
To the level of the footliglits. Dies no 

more 
The sacrificial goat, for Bacchus slain, 
His filmed eyes fluttered by the whirling 

white 
Of choral vestures, — troubled in li;s 

blood, 
While tragic voices that clanged keen ns 

swords. 
Leapt high together with the altar-flame 
And made the blue air wink. The waxen 

mask. 
Which set the grand still front of Themis' 

son 
Upon the puckered visage of a player ; — 
The buskin, which he rose upon and 

moved, 
As some tall shii) first conscious of the 

wind 
Sweeps slowly r^st the piers ; — the 

mouth-piece, where 
The mere man's voice with all its breaths 

and breaks 
Went sheathed in bras.s, and clashed on 

even heights 
Its phrased thunders ;-- these things aie 

no more, 
Which once were. And concluding, 

which is clear, 
T'be growing drama has outgrown such 

toys 
Of simulated stature, face, and speech. 
It also peradventure may outgrow 
The .simulation of the painted scene, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



S9 



Jioards, actors, prompters, gaslight, and 

costume ; 
And take for a worthier stage the soul it- 
self, 
Its shifting fancies and celestial lights, 
With all its grand orchestral silences 
To keep the pauses of the rhythmic 
sounds. 

Alas, I still see something to be done. 
And what I do falls short of what I see 
Though I waste myself on doing. Long 

green days. 
Worn bare of grass and sunshine, — long 

calm nights, 
From which the silken sleeps were fretted 

out, 
Be witness for me, with no amateur's 
Irreverent Iiaste and busy idleness 
X set myself to art 1 What then ? what's 

done ? 
What's done, at last ? 

Behold, at last, a book. 
If life-blood's necessary, — which it is, 
(By that blue vein athrob on Mahomet's 

brow. 
Each prophet-poet's book must show 

man's blood !) 
If life-blood's fertilising, I wrung mine 
On every leaf of this, — unless the drops 
Slid heavily on one side and left it dry. 
That chances often : many a fervid man 
Writes books as cold and flat as grave- 
yard stones 
From which the lichen's scraped, and if 

St. Preux 
Had written his own letters, as he might. 
We had never wept to think of the itttle 

mole 
'Neath Julie's drooping eyelid. Passion 

is 
But something suffered, after all. 

While art 
Sets action on the top of suffering : 
The artist's part is both to be and do, 
Transfixing with a special, central power 
The flat experience of the common man, 
And turning outward, with a sudden 

wrench, 
Half agony, half ecstasy, the thing 
He feels the inmost : never felt the less 
Because he sings it. Does a torch less 

burn 
For burning next reflectors of blue steel. 



That he should be the colder for his 

place 
'Twixt two incessant Ares, — his personal 

life's, _ 
And that intense refraction which burns 

back 
Perpetually against him from the round 
Of crystal conscience he was born into 
If artist-born ? O sorrowful great gi.t 
Conferred on poets, of a twofold life. 
When one life has been found enough 

for pain ! 
We staggering 'neath our burden as mere 

men, 
Being called to stand up straight as 

demi-gods. 
Support the intolerable strain and stress 
Of the universal, and send clearly up 
With voices broken by the human sob, 
Our poems to find rhymes among the 

stars ! 
But soft ! — a ' jjoet' is a word soon said ; 
A book's a thing soon written. Nay, 

indeed, 
The more the poet shall be questionable, 
The more unquestionably comes his 

book. 
And this of mine — well, granting to my- 
self 
Some passion in it, furrowing up the 

flats, 
Mere passion will not prove a volume 

worth 
Its gall and rags even. Bubbles round 

a keel 
Mean nought, excepting that the vessel 

moves. 
There's more than passion goes to make 

a man 
Or book, which is a man too. 

I am sad, 
I wonder if Pygmalion had these 

doubts, 
And, feeling the hard marble first re- 
lent, 
Grow supple to the straining of his arms. 
And tingle through its cold to his burn- 
ing lip, 
Supposed his senses mocked, and that 

the toil 
Of stretching past the known and seen 

to reach 
The archetvpal Beauty out of sight. 
Had made his heart beat fast enough for 

two, 



90 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And with his own hfe dazed and blinded 

him ! 
Not so; Pygmalion loved,— and whoso 

loves 
Believes the impossible. 

And I am sad : 
I cannot thoroughly love a work of 

mine, 
Since none seems worthy of my thought 

and hope 
More highly mated. He has shot them 

down, 
My Phoebus Apollo, soul within my soul, 
Who judges by the attempted, what's at- 
tained, 
And with the silver arrow from his 

height 
Has struck down all my works before 

my face 
While I said nothing. Is there aught 

to say ? 
I call the artist but a greatened man : 
Ha may be childless also, like a man. 

1 laboured on alone. The wind and 

dust 
And sun of the world beat blistering in 

my face ; 
And hope, now for me, now against me, 

dragged 
My spirits onward, — as some fallen 

balloon, 
AVhich, whether caught by blossoming 

tree or bare, 
Is torn alike. I sometimes touched my 

aim, 
Or seemed,— and generous souls cried 

out, ' Be strong. 
Take courage ; now you're on our level, 

—now ! 
The next step saves you ! ' I was flushed 

with praise, 
But, pausing just a moment to draw 

breath, 
I could not choose but murmur to my- 
self 
* Is this all ? all that's done ? and all 

that's gained ? 
If this then be success, 'tis dismaller 
Than any failure.' 

O my God, my God, 
O Supreme Artist, who as sole return 
For all the cosmic wonder of Thy work, 
Demandest of us just a word . , a name, 



' My Father ! — tlion hast knowledge, 
only thou.' 

How dreary 'tis for women to sit still 

On winter nights by solitary fires. 

And hear the nations praising them far 
off, 

Too far ! ay, praising our quick sense of 
love. 

Our very heart of passionate woman- 
hood, 

Which could not beat so in the verse 
without 

Being present also in the unkissed lips, 

And eyes undried because there's none 
to ask 

The reason they rrov/ moist. 

To sit alone, 
And think for comfort how, that very 

night. 
Affianced lovers, leaning face to face 
With sweet half-listenings for each other's 

breath 
Are reading haply from a page of ours. 
To pause with a thrill, as if their cheeks 

had touched. 
When sucli a stanza, level to their mood, 
Seems floating their own thoughts out— 

' So I feel 
For thee,' — 'And I, for thee: this poet 

knows 
What everlasting love is ! '-how, that 

night,_ 
A father, issuing from the misty roads 
Upon the luminous round of lamp and 

hearth 
And happy children, having caught up 

first 
The youngest there until it shrink and 

shriek 
To feel the cold chin prick its dimples 

through 
With winter from the hills, may throw i' 

the lap 
Of the eldest, (who has learnt to drop 

her lids 
To hide some sweetness newer than last 

year's) 
Our book and cry, . . ' Ah you, }()u care 

for rhymes ; 
So here be rhymes to jiorc on under 

trees, 
When April comes to let vou ! I've been 

told 
They are not idle as so many are. 



AURORA LEIGir. 



9' 



But set hearts beating pure as well as 

fast : 
'Tis yours, the book; I'll write your 

name in it, 
That so you may not lose, however lost 
In poet's lore and charming reverie, 
The thought of how your father thought 

of you 
In riding from the town.' 

To have our books 
Appraised by love, associated with love, 
AVhile we sit loveless ! is it hard, you 

think ? 
At least 'tis mournful. Fame, indeed, 

'twas said. 
Means simply love. It was a man said 

that. 
And then, there's love and love : the 

love of all 
(To risk in turn a woman's paradox.) 
Is but a small thing to the love of one. 
You bid a hungry cliild be satisfied 
With a heritage of many corn-fields : 

nay, 
He says he's hungry, — he would rather 

have 
That little barley-cake you keep from 

him 
While reckoning up his harvests. So 

with us ; 
(Here, Romney, too, we fail to general- 
ise !) 
We're hungry. 

Hungry ! but it's pitiful 
To wail like unweaned babes and suck 

our thumbs 
Because we're hungry. Who, in all this 

world, 
(Wherein we are liaply set to pray and 

fast, 
And learn what good is by its opposite) 
Has never hungered ? Woe to liim who 

has found 
The meal enough: if Ugolino's full. 
His teeth have crunched some foul un- 
natural thing: 
For here satiety proves penury 
More utterly irremediable. And since 
We needs must hunger, — better, for 

man's love 
Than God's truth ! better, for compan- 
ions sweet, 
Than great convictions ! let us bear our 
weights. 



Preferring dreary hearths to desert 

souls. 
Well, well, they say we're envious, we 

who rhyme ; 
But I, because I am a woman perhaps, 
And so rhyme ill, am ill at envying. 
I never envied Graham his breadth of 

style, 
Which gives you, with a random snuitcli 

or two, 
(Near-sighted critics analyse to smutch) 
Such delicate perspectives of full life ; 
Nor Belmore, for tlie unity of aim 
To which he cuts his cedarn poems, fine 
As sketchers do their pencils ; nor Mark 

Gage. 
For that caressing colour and trancing 

tone 
Whereby you're swept away and melted 

in 
The sensual element, which with a back 

wave 
Restores you to the level of pure souls 
And leaves you with Plotinus. None 

of these. 
For native gifts or popular applause, 
I've envied; but for this, — that when by 

chance 
Says some one, — ' There goes Belmore, 

a great man ! 
He leaves clean work behind him, and 

requires 
No sweeper up of the chips,' . . a girl 

I know, 
Who answers nothing, save with her 

brown eyes, 
Smiles unaware as if a guardian saint 
Smiled in her: — for this, too,— that 

Gage comes home 
And lays his last book's prodigal review 
Upon his mother's knees, where, years 

ago, 
He laid his childish spelling-book and 

learned 
To chirp and peck the letters from her 

mouth, 
As young birds must. ' Well done,' she 

murmured then, 
She will not say it now more wonder- 

ingly ; 
And yet the last ' Well done,' will toucli 

him more, 
As catching up to-day and yesterday 
In a perfect cord of love ; and so, Mark 

Gage, 



AU2<OAA 



I envy you your mother I — nnd you, Gra- | 

ham, 
rJecause you have a wife who loves you 

so, 
She half forgets, at inoments, to be 

proud 
Of being Graham's wife, until a friend 

observes, 
' The boy here, has his father's massive 

brow, 
Done small in wa:: .if v.e jiush back 

the curls.' 

Who loves ?«^ ? Dearest father, — moth- 
er sweet, — 
I speak the names out sometimes 1 y 

myself, 
And make the silence shiver : they 

sound strange, 
As Hindostanee to an Ind-born man 
Accustomed many years to Englisli 

speech ; 
Or lovely poet-words grown obsolete. 
Which will not leave off singing. Up 

in heaven 
I have my father, — with my mother's 

face 
Beside him in a blotch of heavenly 

light; 
No more for earth's familiar household 

use, 
No more ! The best verse written by 

this hand, 
Can never reach them where they sit, to 

seem 
Well-done to /ke/n. Death quite un- 

fellows us. 
Sets dreadful odds betwixt the live and 

dead, 
And makes us part as those at Babel did 
Through sudden ignorance of a common 

tongue. 
A living Cassar would not dare to play 
At bovv'ls with such as my dead father 



And yet this may be less so than ap- 
pears, 

This change and separation. Sparrows 
five 

For just two farthings, and God cares 
for each. 

If God is not too great for little cares. 

Is any creature, because gone to God ? 



I've seen some men, veracious, nowi.se 
mad. 

Who have thouglit or dreamed, de- 
clared and testified, 

'I'hey heard the Dead a licking like a 
clock 

Whicli strikes the hours of the eterni- 
ties, 

Beside iheni, with their natural ears, and 
knoA.i 

That human spirits feel the human way, 

And hate the unreasoning awe which 
waves them off 

From possible communion. It maybe. 

At least, earth separates r.s well as 

lieaven. 
For instance, 1 have not seen Romncy 

Leigh 
Full eighteen months . . add six, you 

get two years. 
'I'hey say he's very busy with good 

works, — 
Has parted Leigh Hall into almshouses. 
He made an almshouse of his heart one 

day, 
Whicii ever since is loose upon the latch 
For tiiose who pull the string.— I never 

did. 

It always makes me sad to go abroad ; 

And now I'm sadder that 1 went to- 
night 

Among the lights and talkers r.t Lord 
Howe's. 

His wife is gracious, with h.cr glossy 
braids. 

And even voice, and gorgeous eyeballs, 
calm 

As her other jewels. If she's somewhat 
cold, 

Who wonders, when her blood has stood 
so long 

In the ducal reservoir she calls her line 

By no means arrogantly? she's not 
proud : 

Not prouder than the swan Is of the 
lake 

He has always swum in ;— 'tis her ele- 
ment, 

And so she takes it with a natural grace. 

Ignoring tadpoles. She just knows per- 
haps 

There «/v who travel without outriders, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



93 



Wliich isn't her fault. All, to watch 

her face, 
When good Lord Howe expounds his 

theories 
Of social justice and equality — 
'Tis curious, what a tender, tolerant 

ben d 
Her neck takes: for she loves him, 

likes his talk, 
' Such clever talk— that dear, odd Alger- 
non ! ' 
She listens on, exactly as if he talked 
Some Scandinavian myth of Lemures, 
Too pretty to dispute, and too absurd. 

She's gracious to me as her husband's 
friend, 

And would be gracious, were I not a 
Leigh, 

Being used to smile just so, without her 
eyes. 

On Joseph Strangways, the Leeds mes- 
merist. 

And Delia Dobbs, the lecturer from ' the 
States' 

Upon the ' Woman's question.' Then, 
for him, 

I like hirn . . he's my friend. And all 
the rooms 

Were full of crinkling silks that swept 
about 

Tlie fine dust of most subtle courtesies. 

What then?— why then, we come home 
to be sad. 

How lovely One I love not looked to- 
night ! 

She's very pretty, Lady Waldemar. 

Her maid must use both hands to twist 
that coil 

Of tresses, then be careful lest the rich 

Bronze rounds should slip: — she missed, 
though, a gray hair, 

A single one, — I saw it ; otherwise 

The woman looked immortal. How 
they told. 

Those alabaster shoulders and bare 
breasts. 

On which the pearls, drowned out of 
sight in milk. 

Were lost, excepting for the ruby-clasp ! 

They split the amaranth velvet-boddice 
down 

To the waist or nearly, with iV.z auda- 
cious press 



Of full-breathed beauty. If the heart 
within 

Were half as white ! — but, if it were, 
perhaps 

The breasts were closer covered, and the 
sight 

Less aspectable, by half, too. 

I heard 

The young man with the German stu- 
dent's look— 

A sharp face, like a knife in a cleft stick. 

Which shot up straight against the part- 
ing line 

So equally dividing the long hair, — 

Say softly to his neighbor, (thirty-five 

And mediseval) ' Look that way. Sir 
Blaise. 

She's Lady Waldemar — to the left,— in 
red — 

Whom Romney Leigh, our ablest man 
just now. 

Is soon about to marry.' 

Then replied 

Sir Blaise Delorme, with quiet, priestlike 
voice. 

Too used to syllable damnations round 

To make a' natural emphasis worth 
while : 

' Is Leigh your ablest man? the same, I 
think. 

Once jilted by a recreant pretty maid 

Adopted from the people? Now, in 
change, 

He seems to have plucked a flower from 
the other side 

Of the social hedge.' 

' A flower, a flower,' exclaimed 

My German student,— his own eyes full- 
blown 

Bent on her. He was twenty, certainly. 

Sir Blaise resumed with gentle arro- 
gance. 

As if he had dropped his alms into a hat 

And gained the right to counsel,— 'My 
young friend, 

I doubt your ablest man's ability 

To get the least good or help meet for 
him. 

For pagan phalanstery or Christian 
home, 

Fror.i such a flowery creature.' 

' Beautitul ! ' 

My student murmured, rapt,—' Mark 
how she stirs 1 



94 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Just waves her liead, as if a flower in- 
deed, 

Touched far off by the vain breatli of 
our talk.' 

At which that bilious Grimwald, (he 

who writes 
For the Renovator) who had seemed 

absorbed 
Upon the table-book of autographs, 
(I dare say mentally he crunched the 

bones 
Of all those writers, wishing them alive 
To feel his tooth in earnest) turned short 

round 
With low carnivorous laugh, — ' a flower, 

of course ! 
She neither sews nor spins, — and takes 

no thought 
Of her garments . . falling off.' 

The student flinched, 
Sir Blaise, the same ; then both, draw- 
ing back their chairs 
As if they spied black-beetles on the 

floor. 
Pursued their talk, without a word being 

thrown 
To the critic. 

Good Sir Blaise's brow is high 
And noticeably narrow : a strong wind, 
You fancy, might unroof him suddenly. 
And blow that great top attic off his 

head 
So piled with feudal relics. You admire 
His nose in profile, though you miss his 

chin ; 
But, though you miss his chin, you sel- 
dom miss 
His ebon cross worn innermostly, 

(carved 
For penance by a saintly Styrian monk 
Whose flesh was too much with him,) 

slipping through 
Some unaware unbuttoned casualty 
Of the under-waistcoat. With an absent 

air 
Sir Blaise sate fingering it and speaking 

low. 
While I, upon the sofa, heard it all. 

• My dear young friend, if we could bear 

our eyes 
Like blessedest St. Lucy, on a plate, 
They would not trick us into choosing 

wives, 



As doublets, by the colour. Otherwise 
Our fathers chose, — and therefore, when 

they had lumg 
Their household keys about a lady's 

waist, 
The sense of duty gave her dignity : 
•She kept her bosom holy to her babes ; 
And, if a moralist reproved her dress, 
'Twas, ' Too much starch ! ' — and not, 

' Too little lawn ! ' ' 

' Now, psiiaw ! ' returned the other in a 

heat, 
A little fretted by being called ' young 

friend,' 
Or so I took it,—' for St. Lucy's sake. 
If she's the saint to swear by, let \is 

leave 
Our fathers, — plagued enough about 

our sons ! ' 
(He stroked his beardless chin) 'yes, 

plagued, sir, plagued : 
The future generations lie on us 
As heavy as the nightmare of a seer ; 
Our meat and drink grow painful proph- 
ecy : 
I ask you, — have we leisure, if we liked. 
To hollow out our weary hands to keep 
Your intermittent rushlight of he past 
From draughts in lobbies? Prejudice 

of sex 
And marriage-law . . the socket drops 

them through 
While- we two speak, — however may 

protest 
Some over-delicate nostrils, like your 

own, 
'Gainst odours thence arising.' 

' You are young,' 
Sir Blaise objected. 

' If I am,' he said 
With fire, — ' though somewhat less so 

than I seem. 
The young run on before, and see the 

thing 
That's coming. Reverence for the young, 

1 cry. 
In that new church for which the world's 

near ripe, 
You'll have the younger in the Elder's 

chair. 
Presiding with his ivory front of hope 
O'er foreheads clawed by cruel carrion- 
birds 
Of life's experience.' 



AURORA LEIGH. 



' Pray your blessing, sir,' 
Sir Blaise replied good-humouredly, — ' I 

plucked 
A silver hair this morning from my beard, 
Which left me your inferior. Would I 

were 
Eighteen and worthy to admonisli you ! 
If young men of your order run before 
To see such sights as sexual prejudice 
And marriage-law dissolved, — in plainer 

words, 
A general concubinage expressed 
In a universal pruriency, — the thing 
Is scarce worth running fast for, and 

you'd gain 
By loitering with your elders.' 

' Ah,' he said, 
' Who, getting to the top of Pisgah-hill, 
Can talk with one at bottom of tlie view. 
To make it comprehensible ? Why, 

Leigh 
Himself, although our ablest man, I 

said, 
Is scarce advanced to see as far as this, 
Which some are : he takes up imper- 
fectly 
The social question — by one handle — 

leaves 
The rest to trail. A Christian socialist, 
Is Romney Leigh, you understand.' 

' Not I . 
I disbelieve in Christian-pagans, much 
As you in women-fishes. If we mix 
Two colours, we lose both, and make a 

third 
Distinct from either. Mark you ! to 

mistake 
A colour is the sign of a sick brain, 
And mine, I thank tiie saints, is clear 

and cool : 
A neutral tint is here impossible. 
The church, — and by the church, I mean 

of course 
The catliolic, apostolic, mother-church,— 
Draws lines as plain and straiglit as her 

own wall ; 
Inside of which, are Christians, ob- 
viously, 
And outside . . dogs.' 

' We thank you. Well I know 
The ancient mother-church would fain 

still bite. 
For all her toothless gums, — as Leigh 

himself 



Would fain be a Christian still, for all 
his wit ; 

Pass that : you two may settle it, for me. 

You're slow in England. In a month I 
learnt 

At Gottingen enough philosophy 

'I o stock your English schools for fifty 
years ; 

Pass that, too. Here alone, I stop you 
short, 

— Supposing a true man like Leigh could 
stand 

Unequal in the stature of his life 

To the height of his opinions. Choose 
a wife 

Because of a smooth skin ? — not he, not 
he ! 

He'd rail at Venus' self for creaking 
slioes. 

Unless she walked his way of righteous- 
ness ; 

And if he takes a Venus Meretrix, 

(No imputation on the lady there) 

Be sure that, by some sleight of Chris- 
tian art. 

He has metamorphosed and converted 
her 

To a Blessed Virgin.' 

' Soft ! ' Sir Blaise drew breath 

As if it hurt him,—' Soft ! no blasphemy, 

I piay you ! ' 

' The first Christians did tlie thing; 

Why not the last? ' asked he of Gottin- 
gen, 

With just that shade of sneering on the 
lip. ■ 

Compensates for the lagging of the 
beard, — 

' And so the case is. If that fairest fair 

Is talked of as the future wife of Leigh, 

She's talked of too. at least as certainly. 

As Leigh's disciple. You may find her 
name 

On all his missions and commissions, 
schools. 

Asylums, hospitals,— he had her down. 

With other ladies whom her starry lead 

Persuaded from their spheres, to his 
country-place 

In Shropshire, to the famed phalanstery 

At Leigh Hall, christianised from Four- 
ier's own, 

(In which he has planted out his sapling 
stocks 

Of knowledge into social nurseries) 



96 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And there, they say, she has tarried half 
a week, 

And milked the cows, and churned, and 
pressed the curd. 

And said ' my sister ' to the lowest drab 

Of all the assembled castaways ; such 
guls ! _ 

Ay, sided with them at the washing- 
tub— 

Conceive, Sir Blaise, those naked perfect 
arms. 

Round glittering arms, plunged elbow- 
deep in suds. 

Like wild swans hid in lilies all a-shake.' 

Lord Howe came up. ' What, talking 

poetry 
So near the image of the unfavoring 

Muse ? 
That's yon, Miss Leigh: I've watched 

you half an hour. 
Precisely as 1 watched the statue called 
A Pallas in the Vatican ;— you mind 
The face, Sir Blaise?— intensely calm and 

sad. 
As wisdom cut it off from fellowship, — 
But that spoke louder. Not a word 

from yoti I 
And these two gentlemen were bold, I 

marked, 
And unabashed by even your silence.' 

' Ah,' 
Said L ' niy dear Lord Howe, you shall 

not speak 
To a printing woman who has lost her 

place, 
(The sweet safe corner of the household 

fire 
Behind the heads of children) compli- 
ments 
As if she were a woman. We who have 

dipt 
Tlie curls before our eyes, may see at 

least 
As plain as men do : speak out, man to 

man ; 
No compliments, beseech you ' 

' Friend to friend. 
Let that be. We are sad to-night, I 

saw, 
(—Good night. Sir Blaise ! Ah, Smith 

— he has slipped away] 
I saw you across the room, and stayed, 

Miss Leigh, 
To keep a crowd of lion-hunters off, 



With faces toward your jungle. The<e 

were three ; 
A spacious lady, five feet ten and fat, 
Who has the devil in her (and there's 

room) 
For walking to and fro upon the earth. 
From Chippewa to China; she requires 
Your autograph upon a tinted leaf 
'Twixt Queen Pomare's and Emperor 

Soulouque's : 
Pray give it ; she has energies, though 

fat: 
For me, I'd rather see a rick on fire 
Than such a woman angry. Then a 

youth 
Fresh from the backwoods, green as the 

underboughs, 
Asks modestly, Miss Leigh, to kiss your 

shoe. 
And adds, he has an epic in twelve 

parts, 
Which when you've read, you'll do it for 

his boot,— 
All which I saved you, and absorb next 

week 
Both manuscript and man, — because a 

lord 
Is still more potent than a poetess 
With any extreme republican. Ah, ah, 
You smile at last, then.' 

' Thank you.' 

' Leave the smile. 
I'll lose the thanks for't, — ay, and throw 

you in 
My transatlantic girl, with golden eyes. 
That draw you to her splendid white- 
ness as 
The pistil of a water-lily draws. 
Adust with gold. Those girls across the 

sea 
Are tyrannously pretty, — and I swore 
(She seemed to me an innocent, frank 

girl) 
To bring her to you for a woman's kiss. 
Not now, but on some other day or 

week : 
— We'll call it perjury :. I give her up.' 

' No, bring her.' 

' Now,' said he, ' you make it hard 
To touch such goodness with a girmy 

palm. 
I thought to tease you well, and fret you 

cross, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



97 



And steel myself, when rightly vexed 

with you, 
For telling you a thing to tease you more.' 

' Of Romney? ' 

' No, no ; nothing worse,' he cried, 
' Of Romney Leigh than what is buzzed 

about, — 
That Jte is taken in an eye-trap too. 
Like many half as wise. The thing I 

mean 
Refers to you, not him.' 

' Refers to me.' 
He echoed,—' Me ! You sound it like 

a stone 
Dropped down a dry well very listlessly 
By one wlio never thinks about the toad 
Alive at the bottom. Presently perhaps 
You'll sound your' me' more proudly — 

till I shrink.' 

' Lord Howe's the toad, then, in this 
question ? ' 

' Brief, 

We'll take it graver. Give me sofa- 
room, 

And quiet hearing. You know Eglin- 
ton, 

John Eglinton, of Eglinton in Kent?' 

* Is he the toad? — he's rather like the 

snail : 
Known chiefly for the house upon his 

back : 
Divide the man and house —you kill the 

man ; 
That's Eglinton of Eglinton, Lord 

Howe.' 

He answered grave. ' A reputable man, 

An excellent landlord of the olden 
stamp, 

If somewhat slack in new philanthro- 
pies; 

Who keeps his birthdays with a tenants' 
dance. 

Is hard upon them when they miss the 
church 

Or hold their children back from cate- 
chism. 

But not ungentle when the aged poor 

Pick sticks at hedge-sides: nay, I've 
heard him say, 
The old dame has a twinge because 
she stoops : 



' That's punishment enough for felony.' ' 

' O tender-hearted landlord ! May I 

tak? 
My long lease with him, when the time 

arrives 
For gathering winter faggots ! ' 

' He likes art, 
Buys books and pictures . . of a certain 

kind ; 
Neglects no patent duty ; a good son '. . . 



' To a most obedient mother. Born to 
wear 

His father's shoes, she wears her hus- 
band's too : 

Indeed I've heard it's touching. Dear 
Lord Howe, 

You shall not praise me so against your 
heart, 

When I'm at worst for praise and fag- 
gots.' 

'Be 

Less bitter with me, for . . in short.' he 
said, 

' I have a letter, which he urged me so 

To bring you . . I could scarcely choose 
but yield : 

Insisting that a new love passing through 

Tiie hand of an old friendship, caught 
from it 

Some reconciling odour. ' 

' Love, you say ? 

My lord, 1 cannot love. I only find 

The rhyme forlove,— and that's not love, 
my Icrd. 

Take back your letter.' 

' Pause : you'll read it first ? * 

' I will not read it : it is stereotyped ; 
The same he wrote to, — anybody's 

name, 
Anne Blythe the actress, when she died 

so true, 
A duchess fainted in a private box : 
Pauline the dancer, after the great f>as 
In which her little feet winked over- 
head 
Like other fireflies, and amazed the pit : 
Or Baldinacci, when her F in alt 
Had touched the silver tops of heaven 

itself 
With such a pungent spirit-dart, th« 
Queen 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Laid softly, each to each, her white- 
gloved palms. 
And sighed for joy : or else (I thank your 

friend) 
Aurora Leigh,— when some indifferent 

rhymes. 
Like those the boys sang round the holy 

ox 
On Memphis-highway, chance perhaps 

to set 
Our Apis- public lowing. Oh, he wants, 
Instead of any worthy wife at home, 
A star upon Iiis stage of Eglinton ! 
Advise liim that he is not overshrewd 
In being so little modest : a dropped 

star 
Makes bitter waters, says a book I've 

read,— 
And there's his unread letter.' 

' My dear friend,' 
Lord Howe began . . 

In haste I tore the phrase. 
' You mean your friend of Eglinton, or 

me ?' 

' I mean you, you,' he answered with 
some fire. 

* A happy life means prudent compro- 
mise : 

The tare runs through the farmer's gar- 
nered sheaves : 

But though the gleaner's apron holds 
pure wheat, 

We count her poorer. Tare with wheat, 
we cry. 

And good with drawbacks. You, you 
love your art. 

And, certain of vocation, set j'our soul 

On utterance. Only, . , in this world 
we have made, 

(They say God made it first, but if He 
did 

'Twas so long since, . . and, since, we 
have spoiled it so. 

He scarce would know it, if He looked 
this way. 

From hells we preach of, with the flames 
blown out,) 

In this bad, twisted, topsy-turvy world, 

Where all the heaviest wrongs get up- 
permost, — 

In this uneven, unfostering England 
here. 

Where ledger-strokes and sword-strokes 
count indeed. 



But soul -strokes merely tell upon the 
flesh 

They strike from,— it is hard to stand 
for art. 

Unless some golden tripod from the sea 

Be fished up, by Apollo's divine chance, 

To throne such feet as yours, my proph- 
etess, 

At Delphi. Think,— the god comes 
down as fierce 

As twenty bloodhounds ! shakes you, 
strangles you. 

Until the oracular shriek shall ooze in 
froth ! 

At best 'tis not all ease,— at worst too 
hard : 

A place to stand on is a 'vantage gained, 

And here's your tripod. To be plain, 
dear friend. 

You're poor, except in what you richly 
give; 

You labour for your own bread painful- 
ly, 

Or ere you pour our wine. For art's 
sake, pause.' 

I answered slow,— as some wayfaring 

man. 
Who feels himself at night too far from 

home. 
Makes steadfast face against the bitter 

wind. 
' Is art so less a thing than virtue is, 
That artists first must cater for their 

ease 
Or ever they make issue past them- 
selves 
To generous use? alas, and is it so. 
That we, who would be somewhat clean, 

must sweep 
Our ways as well as walk them, and no 

friend 
Confirm us nobly, — ' Leave results to 

God, 
But you, be clean?' What! 'prudent 

compromise 
Makes acceptable life,' you say, instead. 
You, vou. Lord Howe? — in things m- 

different, well. 
For instance, compromise the wheaten 

bread 
For rye, the meat for lentils, silk for 

serge, 
And sleep on down, if needs, for sleep 

on straw ; 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Q9 



But there, end compromise. I will not 

bate 
One artist-dream on straw or down, my 

lord, 
Nor pinch my liberal soul, though I be 

poor, 
Nor cease to love high, though I live 

thus low.' 

So speaking, with less anger in my voice 
Than sorrow, I rose quickly to depart ; 
While lie, thrown back upon the noble 

shame 
Of such high-stumbling natures, mur- 
mured words. 
The right words after wrong ones. Ah, 

the man 
Is worthy, but so given to entertain 
Impossible plans of superhuman life, — 
He sets his virtues on so raised a shelf. 
To keep them at the grand millennial 

height. 
He has to mount a stool to get at them ; 
And meantime, lives on quite the com- 
mon way. 
With everybody's morals. 

As we passed. 
Lord Howe insisting that his friendly 

arm 
Should oar me across the sparkling 

brawling stream 
Which swept from room to room, we fell 

at once 
On Lady Waldemar. ' Miss Leigh,' she 

said. 
And gave me such a smile, so cold and 

bright. 
As if siie tried it in a 'tiring glass 
And liked it ; ' all to-night I've strained 

at you. 
As babes at baubles held up out of reach 
By spiteful nurses, (' Never snatch,' 

they say,) 
And there you sate, most perfectly shut 

in 
By good Sir Blaise and clever Mister 

Smith, 
And then our dear Lord Howe ! at last 

indeed 
I almost snatched. I have a world to 

speak 
About your cousin's place in Shropshire, 

where 
I've been to see his work . . our work, — 

you heard 



I went.' . . and of a letter yesterday, 

In which, if 1 should read a page or 
two, 

You might feel interest, though you're 
locked of course 

In literary toil. — You'll like to hear 

Your last book lies at the phalanstery. 

As judged innocuous for the elder girls 

And younger women who still car^e for 
books. 

We all must read, you see, before we 
live : 

But slowly the ineffable light comes up. 

And, as it deepens, drowns the written 
word, — 

So said your cousin, while we stood and 
felt 

A sunset from his favourite beech-tree 
seat : 

He might have been a poet if he would, 

But then he saw the higher thing at once 

And climbed to it. I think he looks well 
now, 

Has quite got over that unfortunate . . 

Ah, ah . . I know it moved you. Ten- 
der-heart ! 

You took a liking to the wretched girl. 

Perhaps you thought the marriage suita- 
ble. 

Who knows? a poet hankers for ro- 
mance, 

And so on. As for Romney Leigh, 'tis 
sure 

He never loved her, — never. By the 
way, 

You have not heard o( her? . . quite 
out of sight. 

And out of saving ? lost in every sense ? ' 

She might have gone on talking half-an 

hour, 
A.nd I stood still, and cold, and pale, I 

think, 
As a garden-statue a child pelts with 

snow 
For pretty pastime. Every now and 

then 
I put in ' yes' or ' no,' I scarce, knew 

why ; 
The blind man walks wherever the dog 

pulls, 
And so I answered. Till Lord Howe 

broke in : 
' What penance takes the wretch who in- 
terrupts 



AURORA LEIGH. 



The talk of charming women ? I, rt 

last, 
Must brave it. Pardon, Lady Walde- 

mar ! 
The lady on my arm is tired, unwell, 
And loyally I've promised she shall say 
Nor harder word this evening, than . , 

goodnight ; 
The rest her face speaks for her.' — Then 

we went. 

And I breathe large at home. I drop 

my cloak, 
Unclasp my girdle, loose the band that 

ties 
IVIy hair . . now could I but uTiloose my 

soul ! 
We are sepulchered alive in this close 

world, 
And want more room. 

The charming woman there — 
This reckoning up and writing down her 

talk 
Affects me singularly. How she talked 
To pain me ! woman's spite ! — You wear 

steel-mail ; 
A woman takes a housewife from her 

breast, 
And plucks the delicatest needle out 
As 'twere a rose, and pricks vou care- 
fully 
'Neath nails, 'neath eyelids, in your nos- 
trils, —say, 
A beast would roar so tortured,— but a 

man, 
A human creature, must not, shall not 

flinch, 
No, not for shame. 

What vexes after all. 
Is just that such as she, with such as I, 
Knows how to vex. Sweet heaven, she 

takes me up 
As if she had fingered me and dog-eared 

me 
And spelled me by the fireside half a 

life ! 
She knows my turns, my feeble points. 

—What then ? 
'J"he knowledge of a thing implies the 

thing; 
Of course, she found that in mc, she saw 

that, 
Her pencil underscored this for a fault, 
And I, still ignorant. Shut the book up 

—close ! 



And crush that beetle in the leaves. 

O heart, 
At last we shall grow hard too, like the 

rest, 
And call it self defence because we are 

soft. 

And after all, now, . . why should I be 

pained 
That Romney Leigh, my cousin, should 

espouse 
This Lady Waldemar? And, sav, she 

held 
Her newly-blossomed gladness in my 

face, . . 
'Twas natural surely, if not generous. 
Considering how, when winter held her 

fast. 
I helped the frost with mine, and pained 

her more 
Than she pains me. Pains me ! — but 

wherefore pained? 
'Tis clear my cousin Romney wants a 

wife, — 
So, good ! — The man's need " of the 

woman, here, 
Is greater than the woman's of the man. 
And easier served ; for where the man 

discerns 
A sex, (ah, ah, the man can generalise. 
Said he) we see but one, ideally 
And really : where we yearn to lose our- 
selves 
And melt like white pearls in another's 

wine. 
He seeks to double himself by what he 

loves, 
And make his drink more costly by our 

pearls. 
At board, at bed, at work and holiday, 
It is not good for man to be alone. 
And that's his way of thinking, first and 

last ; 
And thus my cousin Romney wants a 

wife. 

P>ut then my cousin sets liis dignity 
On personal virtue. If he understands 
I3y love, like others, self-aggrandise- 
ment. 
It is that he may verily be great 
r>y doing rightly and kindly. Once he 

thought. 
For charitable ends set duly forth 



AURORA LEIGH. 



In heaven's white judgment-book, to 

marry . . ah, 
We'll call her name Aurora Leigh, al- 
though 
She's changed since then ! — and once, 

for social ends, 
Poor Marian Erie, my sister Marian 

Erie, 
My woodland sister, sweet Maid Marian, 
Wliose memory moans on in me like tiie 

wind 
Tlirough ill-shut casements, making me 

more sad 
Than ever I find reasons for. Alas, 
Poor pretty plaintive face, embodied 

ghost. 
He finds it easy then, to clap thee off 
From pulling at his sleeve and book and 

pen,^ 
He locks thee out at night into the cold, 
Away from butting with thy horny eyes 
Against his crystal dreams, — that now 

he's strong 
To love anew? that Lady Waldemar 
Succeeds iny Marian? 

After all, why not ? 
He loved not Marian, more than once 

he loved 
Aurora. If he loves at last that Third, 
Albeit she prove as slippery as spilt oil 
On marble floors, I will not augur him 
111 luck for that. Good love, howe'er 

ill-placed. 
Is better for a man's soul in the end. 
Than if he loved ill what deserves love 

well. 
A pagan, kissing for a step of Pan 
The wild-goat's hoof-print oil the loamy 

down. 
Exceeds our modern thinker who turns 

back 
The strata . . granite, limestone, coal 

and clay, 
Concluding coldly with, ' Here's law ! 

Where's God?' 

And then at worse, — if Romney loves 

her not, — 
At worst, — if he's incapable of love, 
Which may be — then indeed, for such a 

man 
Incapable of love, she's good enough ; 
For she, at worst too, is a woman still 



And loves him . . as the sort of woman 
can. 

My loose long hair began to burn and 

creep, 
Alive to the very ends, about my knees : 
I swept it backward as the wind sweeps 

flame. 
With the passion of my hands. Ah, 

Romney laughed 
One day . . (how full the memories come 

up !) 
' — Your Florence fire-flies live on in 

your hair,' 
He said, ' It gleams so.' Well, I wrung 

them out. 
My fire-flies ; made a knot as hard as 

life 
Of those loose, soft, impracticable curls. 
And then sat down and thought . . 

'She shall not think 
Her thoughts of me,' — and drew my 

desk and wrote. 

' Dear Lady Waldemar, I could noc 

speak 
With people round me, nor can sleep to- 
night 
And not speak, after the great nev.-s I 

heard 
Of you and of my cousin. May you 

be 
Most happy ; and the good he meant 

the world. 
Replenish his own life. Say what I 

say. 
And let my word be sweeter for your 

mouth. 
As you are j)"'?< . . I only Aurora Leigh.' 

That's quiet, guarded. Though she hold 

it up 
Against the light, she'll not see througli 

It more 
Than lies there to be seen. So much for 

pride ; 
And now for peace, a litde ! Let me 

stop 
All writing back . . ' Sweet thanks, my 

sweetest friend. 
You've made more joyful my great joy 

•itself.' 
— No, that's too simple ! she would 

twist it thus, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



• My joy would still be as sweet as 

thyme in drawers. 
However shut up in the dark and dry ; 
But violets, aired and dewed by love like 

yours, 
Out-smell all thyme : we keep that in 

our clothes, 
But drop the other down our bosoms 

till 
They smell like ' . . ah, I see her writing 

back 
Just so. She'll make a nosegay of her 

words. 
And tie it with blue ribbons at the end 
To suit a poet ; — pshaw ! 

And then we'll have 
The call to church ; the broken, sad, 

bad dream 
Dreamed out at last ; the marriage-vow 

complete 
With the marriage-breakfast; prayinj 

in white gloves. 
Drawn off in haste for drinking pagan 

toasts 
In somewhat stronger wine than any 

sipped 
By gods suice Bacchus had his way 

with grapes. 

A postscript stops all that and rescues 
me. 

' You need not write. I have been over- 
worked. 

And think of leaving London, England 
even. 

And hastening to get nearer to the sun 

Where men sleep better. So, adieu.' — 
I fold 

And seal, — and now I'm out of all the 
coil ; 

I breathe now ; I spring upw.ard like a 
branch 

A ten-year school-boy with a crooked 
stick 

May pull down to his level in search of 
nuts. 

But cannot hold a moment. How we 
twang 

Back on the blue sky, and assert our 
height. 

While he stares after ! Now, the won- 
der seems 

That I could wrong myself by such a 
doubt. 



We poets always have uneasy hearts ; 
Because our hearts, large-rounded as the 

globe, 
Can turn but one side to the sun at once. 
We are used to dip our artist-hands in 

gall 
And potash, trying potentialities 
Of alternated color, till at last 
We get confused, and wonder for our 

skin 
How nature tinged It first. Well — here's 

the true 
Good flesh -color ; I recognise my hand. 
Which Romney Leigh may clasp as just 

a friend's. 
And keep his clean. 

And now, my Italy. 
Alas, if we could ride with naked souls 
And make no noise and pay no price at 

all, 
I would have seen thee sooner, Italy, — 
For still I have heard thee crying 

through my life. 
Thou piercing silence of ecstatic graves. 
Men call that name ! 

But even a witch to-day 

Must melt down golden pieces in the 
nard 

WherewUh to anoint her broomstick ere 
she rides ; 

And poets evermore are scant of gold. 

And if they find a piece behind the 
door 

It turns by sunset to a withered leaf. 

The Devil himself scarce trusts his pat- 
ented 

Gold - making art to any who make 
rhymes, 

But culls his Faustus from philosophers 

And not from poets. ' Leave my Job,' 
said God, 

And so the Devil leaves him without 
pence, 

And poverty proves plainly special 
grace. 

In these new, just, administrative times 

Men clamour for an order of merit ; 
Why ? 

Here's black bread on the table and no 
wine ! 

At least I am a poet in being poor ; 

Thank God. I wonder if the manu- 
script 



AURORA LEIGH. 



105 



Of my long poem, if 'twere sold outright. 

Would fetch enough to buy me shoes, to 
go 

A-foot, (thrown in, the necessary patch 

For the other side the Alps) ? it cannot 
be : 

I fear that I must sell this residue 

Of my father's books; although the 
Elzevirs 

Have fly - leaves over- written by his 
hand 

In faded notes as thick and fine and 
brown 

As cobwebs on a tawny monument 

Of the Old Greeks — coiiferenda hcpc 
cum his — 

Corrupt e citat — lege pothis. 

And so on, in the scholar's regal way 

Of giving judgment on the parts of 
speech. 

As if he sate on all twelve thrones up- 
piled, 

Arraigning Israel. Ay, but books and 
notes 

Must go together. And this Proclustoo 

In these dear quaint contracted Grecian 
types, 

Fantastically crumpled, like his thoughts 

Which would not seem too plain ; you 
go round twice 

For one step forward, then you take it 
back 

Because you're somewhat giddy ; 
there's the rule 

For Proclus. Ah, I stained this middle 
leaf 

With pressmg in't my Florence iris- 
bell, 

Long stalk and all ; my father chided 
me 

For that stain of blue blood, — I recol- 
lect 

The peevish turn his voice took, — ' Sil- 
ly girls. 

Who plant their flowers in our philoso- 
phy 

To make it fine, and only spoil the 
book ! 

Ko more of it, Aurora.' Yes — no more ! 

Ah, blame of love, that's sweeter than 
all praise 

Of those who love not ! 'tis so lost on 
me, 

I cannot, in such beggared life, aflFord 



To lose my Proclus. Not for Florence 
even. 

The kissing Judas, Wolff, shall go in- 
stead. 

Who builds us such a royal book as 
this 

To honour a chief-poet, folio-built. 

And writes above, ' The house of No- 
body :' 

Who floats in cream, as rich as any 
sucked 

From Juno's breasts, the broad Home- 
ric lines. 

And, while with their spondaic prodi- 
gious mouths 

They lap the lucent margins as babe- 
gods. 

Proclaims them bastards. Wolff's an 
atheist ; 

And if the Iliad fell out, as he says. 

By mere fortuitous concourse of old 
songs. 

Conclude as much too for the universe. 

That Wolff", those Platos : sweep the 
upper shelves 

As clean as this, and so I am almost 
rich. 

Which means, not forced to think of 
being poor 

In sight of ends. To-morrow : no de- 
lay. 

I'll wait in Paris till good Carrington 

Dispose of such, and, having chaflfered 
for 

My book's j:rice with the publisher, di- 
rect 

All proceeds to me. Just a line to ask 

His help. 

.A.nd now I come, my Italy, 

My own hills ! Are you 'ware of me, 
my hills. 

How I burn toward you ? do you feel 
to-night 

The urgency and yearning of my soul. 

As sleeping mothers feel the sucking 
babe 

And smile ? — Nay, not so much as when 
in heat 

Vain lightnings catch at your inviolate 
tops 

And tremble while ye are stedfast. Still, 
ye go 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Your own determined, calm, indifferent 
way 

Toward sunrise, shade by shade, and 
light by light ; 

Of all the grand progression nought left 
out ; 

As if God verily made you for your- 
selves. 

And would not interrupt your life with 
ours. 



SIXTH BOOK. 

The English have a scornful insular way 
Of calling the French light. The lev- 

Is in the judgment only, wliich yet 

stands ; 
For say a foolish thing but oft enough 
(And here's the secret of a hundred 

creeds. 
Men get opinions as boys learn to spell. 
By re-iteration chiefly) the same thing 
Shall pass at last for absolutely wise. 
And not with fools exclusively. And so 
We say the French are light, as if we 

said 
The cat mews or the milch-cow gives 

iLs milk : 
Say rather, cats are milked and milch- 
cows mew ; 
For what is lightness but inconsequence. 
Vague fluctuation 'twixt effect and 

cause. 
Compelled by neither? Is a bullet 

light. 
That dashes from the gun-mouth, while 

the eye 
Winks and the heart beats one, to flat- 
ten itself 
To a wafer on the white speck on a 

wall 
A hundred paces off? Even so direct, 
So sternly undivertible of aim. 
Is this French people. 

All idealists 
Too absolute and earnest, with them all 
The idea of a knife cuts real flesh ; 
And still, devouring the safe interval 
Which nature placed between the 
thought and act 



With those too fiery and impatient 
souls. 

They threaten conflagration to the world 

And rush with most unscrupulous logic 
on 

Impossible practice. Set your orators 

To blow upon them with loud windy 
mouths 

Through watchword phrases, jest or 
sentiment. 

Which drives our burley brutal English 
mobs 

Like so much chaff, whichever way 
they blow, — 

This light French people will not thus 
be driven. 

They turn indeed ; but then they turn 
upon 

Some central pivot of their thought and 
choice. 

And veer out by the force of holding 
fast. 

— ^That's hard to understand, for En- 
glishmen 

Unused to abstract questions, and un- 
trained 

To trace the involutions, valve by valve. 

In each orbed bulb-root of a general 
truth. 

And mark what subtly fine integument 

Divides opposed compartments. Free- 
dom's self 

Comes concrete to us, to be understood. 

Fixed in a feudal form incarnately 

To suit our ways of thought and reve- 
rence. 

The special form, with us, being still 
the thing. 

With us, I say, though I'm of Italy 

By mother's birth and grave, by father's 
grave 

And memory ; let it be, — a poet's heart 

Can swell to a pair of nationalities. 

However ill-lodged in a woman's 
breast. 

And so I am strong to love this noble 

France, 
This poet of the nations, who dreams on 
And wails on (while the household goes 

to wreck) 
For ever, after some ideal good, — 
Some equal poise of sex, some imvowed 

love 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Inviolate, some spontaneous brother- 
hood. 
Some wealth, that leaves none poor and 

finds none tired, 
Some freedom of the many that respects 
The wisdom of the few. Heroic 

dreams ! 
Sublime, to dream so ; natural, to wake: 
And sad, to use such lofty scaffoldings. 
Erected for the building of a church. 
To build instead a brothel . . or a pris- 
on — 
May God save France ! 

And if at last she sighs 
Her great soul up into a great man's 

face, 
To flush his temples out so gloriously 
That few dare carp at Caesar for being 

bald. 
What then 1 — this Caesar represents, not 

reigns. 
And is no despot, though twice abso- 
lute : 
This Head has all the people for a 

heart ; 
This purple's lined with the democ- 
racy, — 
Now let him see to it ! for a rent within 
Must leave irreparable rags without. 

A serious riddle : find such anywhere 
Except in France ; and when 'tis found 

in France, 
Be sure to read it rightly. So, I mused 
Up and down, up and down, the ter- 
raced streets. 
The glittering Boulevards, the white 

colonnades 
Of fair fantastic Paris who wears trees 
Like plumes, as if man made them, spire 

and tower 
As if they had grown by nature, tossing 

up 
Her fountains in the sunshine cf the 

squares, 
As if in beauty's game she tossed the 

dice. 
Or blew the silver down-balls of her 

dreams 
To sow futurity with the seeds of thought 
And count the passage of her festive 

hours. 



The city swims 



;rdure. beautiful 



As Venice on the waters, the sea-swan. 
What bosky gardens dropped in close- 
walled courts 
As plums in ladies' laps, who start and 

laugh : 
What miles of streets that run on after 

trees. 
Still carrying all the necessary shops. 
Those open caskets with the jewels seen! 
And trade is art, and art's philosophy, 
in Paris. There's a .silk, for instance, 

there. 
As worth an artist's study for the folds. 
As that bronze opposite ! nay, the bronze 

has faults ; 
Art's here too artful, — conscious as a 

maid 
Who leans to mark her shadow on the 

wall 
Until she lose a 'vantage in her step. 

Yet Art walks forward, and knows 

where to walk : 
The artists also are idealists, 
Too absolute for nature, logical 
To austerity in the application of 
I'he special theory : not a soul content 
To paint a crooked pollard and an ass. 
As the English will, because they find 

it so 
And like it somehow. — There the old 

Tuileries 
Is pulling its high cap down on its eyes, 
Confounded, conscience-stricken, and 

amazed 
By the apparition of a new fair face 
In those devouring mirrors. Through 

the grate 
Within the gardens, what a heap of 

babes. 
Swept up like leaves beneath the chest- 
nut trees 
From every street and alley of the town. 
By ghosts perhaps that blow too bleak 

this way 
A-looking for their heads ! Dear pretty 

babes, 
I wish them luck to have their ball-play 

out 
Before the next change. Here the air 

IS thronged 
With statues poised upon their columns 

fine. 
As if to stand a moment were a feat. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Against that blue ! What squares ! 

what breathing-room 
For a nation that runs fast, — ay, runs 

against 
The dentist's teeth at the corner ia jialc 

rows, 
Which grin at progress in an epigram. 

I walked the day out, listening to tlic 
chink 

Of the first Napoleon's dry bones i:i his 
second grave 

By victories guarded 'neath the golden 
dome 

That caps all Paris like a bubble. 'Shall 

These dry bones live,' thought Louis 
Philippe once. 

And lived to know. Herein is argu- 
ment 

For kings and politicians, but still more 

For poets, who bear buckets to the well 

Of ampler draught. 

These crowds are very good 
For meditation, (when we are very 

strong) 
Though love of beauty makes us timor- 
ous, 
And draws us backward from the coarse 

town-sights 
To count the daisies upon dappled fi^^.lds, 
And hear the streams bleat on among 

the hills 
In innocent and indolent repose ; 
While still with silken elegiac thoughts 
We wind out from us the distracting 

world 
And die into the chrysalis of a man. 
And leave the best that may, to come of 

us 
In some brown moth. I would be bold 

and bear 
To look into the swarthiest face of things. 
For God's sake who has made them. 



Six days' work ; 

The last day shutting 'twixt its dawn 
and eve, 

The whole work bettered of the pre- 
vious five ! 

Since God collected and resumed in 
man 



The firmaments, the strata, and the 

lights, 
Fish, fowl, and beast, and insect, — all 

their trains 
Of various life caught back upon His 

arm. 
Reorganised, and constituted man. 
The microcosm, the adding up of works ; 
Within whose fluttering nostrils, then, 

at last 
Consummating Himself the Maker sigh- 
ed. 
As some strong winner at the foot race 

sighs 
Touching the goal. 

Humanity is great ; 
And, if I would not rather p6ur upon 
An ounce of common, ugly, human dust. 
An artisan's palm or a peasant's brow, 
Unsmooth, ignoble, save to me and God, 
Than track old Milus to his silver roots. 
And wait on all the changes of the 

moon 
Among the mountain-peaks of Thessaly, 
(Until lier magic crystal round itself 
For many a witch to see in) — set it down 
As weakness, — strength by no means. 

How is this 
That men of science, osteologists 
And surgeons, beat some poets in respect 
For nature, — count nought common or 

unclean. 
Spend raptures upon perfect specimens 
Of indurated veins, distorted joints. 
Or beautiful new cases of curved spine ; 
While we, we are shocked at nature's 

falling off. 
We dare to shrink back from her warts 

and blains. 
We will not, when she sneezes, look at 

her. 
Not even to say, 'God bless her'? 

That's our wrong. 
For that, she will not trust us often with 
Her larger sense of beauty and desire. 
But tethers us to a lily or a rose 
And bids us diet on the dew inside, 
Left ignorant that the hungry beggar- 
boy 
(Who stares unseen against our aksent 

eyes, 
And wonders at the gods that we must 

be. 
To pass so carelessly for the oranges !) 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Bears yet a breastful of a fellow-world 
To this world, undisparaged, unde- 

spoiled, 
And (while we scorn him for a flower or 

two. 
As being. Heaven help us, less poetical) 
Contains himself both flowers and fir- 
maments 
And surging seas and aspectable stars 
And all that we would push him out of 

sight 
In order to see nearer. Let us pray 
God's grace to keep God's image in re- 
pute : 
That so the poet and philanthropist 
(Even I and Romney) may stand side 

by side. 
Because we both stand face to face with 

men 
Contemplating the people in the rough, 
Yet each so follow a vocation, — his 
And mine. 

I walked on, musing with myself 
On life and art, and whether after all 
A larger metaphysics might not help 
Our physics, a completer poetry 
Adjust our daily life and vulgar wants 
More fully than the special outside 

plans, 
Phalansteries, material institutes, 
The civil conscriptions and lay monas- 
teries 
Preferred by modern thinkers, as they 

thought 
The bread of man indeed made all his 

life. 
And washing seven times in the ' Peo- 
ple's Baths ' 
Were'sovereign for a people's leprosy. 
Still leavuig out the essential prophet's 

word 
That comes in power. On which, we 

thunder down, 
We prophets, poets, — Virtue's in the 

luord ! 
The maker burnt the darkness up witli 

His, 
To inaugurate the use of vocal life ; 
And, plant a poet's word even, deep 

enough 
In any man's breast, looking presently 
For offshoots, you have done more for 
the man 



Than if you dressed him in a broad- 
cloth coat 

And warmed his Sunday potage at your 
fire. 

Yet Romney leaves me . . . 

God 1 what face is that ? 

O Romney. O Marian ! 

Walking on the quays 

And pulling thoughts to pieces leisurely. 

As if I caught at grasses in a field 

And bit them slow between my absent 
lips. 

And shred them with my hands . . 

What face is that ? 

What a face, what a look, what a like- 
ness ! Full on mine 

The sudden blow of it came down, till 
all 

My blood swam, my eyes dazzled. 
Then I sprang — 

It was as if a meditative man 

Were dreaming out a summer afternoon 

And watchmg gnats a-prick upon a 

pond, 
When something floats up suddenly, out 

there, 
Turns over . . a dead face, known once 

alive — 
So old, so new 1 It would be dreadful 

now 
To lose the sight and keep the doubt of 

this. 
He plunges — ha ! he has lost it in the 

splash. 

I plunged — I tore the crowd up, either 

side. 
And rushed on, — forward, forward . . 

after her. 
Her? whom? 

A woman sauntered slow in front. 
Munching an apple, — she left off 

amazed 
As if I had snatched it : that's not she, 

at least. 
A man walked arm-linked with a lady 

veiled. 
Both heads dropped closer than the 

need of talk : 
They started ; he forgot her with his 

face. 
And she, herself, — and clung to him as if 



io8 



AURORA LEIGH. 



My look were fatal. Such a stream of 
folk. 

And all with cares and business of their 
own ! 

I ran the whole quay down against their 
eyes ; 

No Marian ; nowhere Marian. Almost, 
now, 

I could call Marian, Marian, with the 
shriek 

Of desperate creatures calling for the 
Dead. 

Where is she, was she ? was she any- 
where ? 

I stood still, breathless, gazing, strain- 
ing out 

In every uncertain distance, till at last, 

A gentleman abstracted as myself 

Came full against me, then resolved the 
clash 

In voluble excuses, — obviously 

Some learned member of the Institute 

Upon his way there, walking, for his 
health, 

AVhile meditating on the last ' Dis- 
course ;' 

Pinching the empty air 'twixt fuiger 
and thumb. 

From which the snuff being ousted by 
that shock. 

Defiled his snow-white waistcoat duly 
pricked 

At the button-hole with honourable red ; 

'Madame, your pardon,' — there he 
swerved from me 

A metre, as confounded as he had 
heard 

That Dumas would be chosen to fill up 

The next chair vacant, by his ' men /« 
ns,' 

Since when was genius found respecta- 
ble ? 

It pas.ses in its place, indeed, — which 
means 

The seventh floor back, or else the hos- 
pital : 

Revolving pistols are ingenious things. 

But prudent men (Academicans are) 

Scarce keep them in the cupboard next 
the prunes. 

And so, abandoned to a bitter mirth, 
I loitered to my inn. O world, O 
world. 



O jurists, rhymers, dreamers, what you 

please. 
We play a weary game of hide and 

seek I 
We shape a figure of our fantasy. 
Call nothing something, and run after 

it 
And lose it, lose ourselves too in the 

search. 
Till clash against us, comes :\. some- 
body 
Who also has lost something and is 

lost. 
Philosopher against Philanthropist, 
Academician against poet, man 
Against woman, against the living the 

dead, — 
Then home, with a bad headache and 

worst jest, 

To change the water for my helio- 
tropes 
And yellow roses. Paris has such 

flowers. 
But England, also. 'Twas a yellow 

rose. 
By that south window of the little 

house, 
My cousin Romney gathered with his 

hand 
On all my birthdays for me, save the 

last ; 
And then I .shook the tree too rough, too 

rough. 
For roses to stay after. 

Now, my maps. 
T must not linger here from Italy 
Till the last nightingale is tired of song. 
And the last fire-fly dies off in the 

maize. 
My .soul's in haste to leap into the sun 
And scorch and seethe itself to a finer 

mood. 
Which here, in this chill north, is apt to 

stand 
Too stiffly in former moulds. 

That face persists. 
It floats up, it turns over in my mind. 
As like to Marian, as one dead is like 
The same alive. In very deed a face 
And not a fancy, though it vanished so ; 
The small fair face between the darka 
of hair. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



I uccd to Hken, when I saw her first, 
To apoint of moonlit water down a well: 
The low brow, the frank space between 

the eyes. 
Which always had the brown pathetic 

look 
(Jf a dumb creature who had been beaten 

once 
And never since was casj- with the 

world. 
Ah, ah — now I remember perfectly 
Those eyes to-day, — how overlarge they 

seemed, 
As if some patient passionate despair 
(Like a coal dropt and forgot on tapes- 
try- 
Which slowly burns a widening circle 

out) 
Had burnt them larger, larger. And 

those eyes 
To-day, I do remember, saw me too. 
As I saw them, with conscious lids 

astrain 
In recognition. Now a fantasy, 
A simple shade or image of the brain. 
Is merely passive, does not retro-act. 
Is seen, but sees not. 

'Twas a real face. 
Perhaps a real Marian. 

Which being so, 
I ought to write to Romney, ' Marian's 

here, 
lie comforted for Marian.' 

My pen fell. 
My hands struck sharp together as 

hands do 
Which hold at nothing. Can I write to 

him 
A half truth ? can I keep my own soul 

blind 
To the other half, . . the worse ? What 

are our souls. 
If still, to run on straight a sober pace 
Nor start at every pebble or dead leaf. 
They must wear blinkers, ignore facts, 

suppress 
Six tenths of the road ? Confront the 

truth, my soul ! 
And oh, as truly as that was Marian's 

face, 
The arms of that same Marian clasped 

a thing 



. . Not hid so well beneath the scanty 

shawl, 
I cannot name it now for what it was. 

A child. Small business has a ca.st- 
away 

Like Marian with that crown of prosper- 
ous wives. 

At which the gentlest she grows arro- 
gant 

And says, ' my child.' Who'll find an 
emerald ring 

On a beggar's middle finger, and require 

More testimony to convict a thief? 

A child's too costly for so mere a wretch ; 

She filched it somewhere ; and it means, 
with her. 

Instead of honor, blessing, . . merely 
shame 

I cannot write to Romney, ' Here she is, 

Here's Marian found ! I'll set you on 
her track : 

I saw her here, in Paris, . . and her 
child. 

She put away your love two years ago. 

But, plainly, not to starve. You suf- 
fered then ; 

And, now that you've forgot her utterly 

As any Last year's annual in whose place 

You've planted a thick flowering ever- 
green, 

I choose, being kind, to write and tell 
you this 

To make you wholly easy^she's not 
dead. 

But only . . damned.' 

Stop there : I go too fast, 

I'm cruel like the rest, — in haste to take 

The first stir m the arras for a rat, 

And set my barking, biting thoughts 
upoi't. 

— A child 1 what then? Suppose a 
neighbour's sick 

And asked her, ' Marian, carry out my 
child 

In this Spring air,' — I punish her for 
that ? 

Or say, the child should hold her round 
the neck 

For good child-reasons, that he liked it 
so 

And would not leave her — she had win- 
ning ways — 



AURORA LEIGH. 



I brand her therefore that she took the 

child ? 
Not so. 

I will not write to Romney Leigh. 
For now he's happy, — and she may in- 
deed 
Be guilty, — and the knowledge of her 

fault 
Would draggle his smooth time. But I, 

whose days 
Are not so fine they cannot bear the 

rain. 
And who moreover having seen her 

face 
Must see it again, . . will see it, by my 

hopes 
Of one day seeing heaven too. The 

police 
Shall track her, hound her, ferret their 

own soil ; 
We'll dig this Paris to its catacombs 
But certainly we'll find her, have her 

out, 
And save her, if she will or will not — 

child 
Or no child, — if a child, then one to 

save 1 

The long weeks passed on without con- 
sequence. 

As easy find a footstep on the sand 

The morning after spring-tide, as the 
trace 

Of Marian's feet between the incessant 
surfs 

Of this live flood. She may have 
moved this way, — 

But so the star-fish does, and crosses out 

The dent of her small shoe. The foiled 
police 

Renounced me ; ' Could they find a girl 
and child. 

No other signalment but a girl and 
child ? 

No data shown but noticeable eyes 

And hair in masses, low upon the brow. 

As if it were an iron crown and pressed ? 

Friends heighten, and suppose they 
specify : 

Why, girls with hair and eyes, are every- 
where 

In Paris ; they had turned me up in 
vain 

No Marian Erie indeed, but certainly 



Mathildes, Justines. Victoires, . . or, if 1 

sought 
The English Betsis, Saras, by the score. 
They might as well go out into the 

fields 
To find a speckled bean, that's somehow 

specked. 
And somewhere in the pod.' — They left 

me so. 
Shall / leave Marian 1 h:ive I dreamed 

a dream ? 
— I thank God I have found lier ? I 

must say 
' Thank God,' for finding her, although 

'tis true 
I find the. world more sad and wicked 

for't. 
But she— 

I'll write about her, presently ; 
My hand's a-tremble as I had just 

caught up 
My heart to write with, in the place 

of It. 
At least you'd take these letters to be 

writ 
At sea, in .'^torm ! — wait now . . 

A simple chance 
Did all. I could not sleep last night, 

and tired 
Of turning on my pillow and harder 

thoughts. 
Went out at early morning, when the 

air 
Is delicate with some last starry touch. 
To wander through the Market-place of 

Flowers 
(The prettiest haunt in Paris), and make 

sure 
At worst that there were roses in the 

world 
So \\aidering, musing with the artist's 

eye. 
That keeps the shade-side of the thing 

it loves, 
Half-absent, whole-observing, while the 

crowd 
Of young vivacious and black-braided 

heads 
Dipped, quick as finches in a blossomed 

tree. 
Among the nosegays, cheapening this 

and that 
In such a cheerful twitter of rapid 

speech, — 



AURORA LEIGH. 



My heart leapt in me, startled by a voice 
That slowly, faintly, with long breaths 

that marked 
The interval between the wish and 

word, 
Inquired in stranger's French, ' Would 

that be much, 
That branch of flowering mountain- 

gorse ? — ' So much '? 
Too much for me, then ! ' turnmg the 

face round 
So close upon me, that I felt the sigh 
It turned with. 

' Marian, Marian ! ' — face to face — 
' Marian ! 1 find you. Shall I let you 

I held her two slight wrists with both 

my hands ; 
' Ah Marian, Marian, can I let you go ?' 
— She fluttered from me like a cycla- 
men. 
As white, which taken in a sudden wind 
Beats on against the palisade. — * Let 

pass,' 
She said at last. ' I will not,' I replied ; 
' 1 lost my sister Marian many days. 
And sought her ever in my walks and 

prayers. 
And now I find her ... do we throw 

away 
The bread we worked and prayed for, — 

crumble it 
And drop it, . . to do even so by thee 
Whom still I've hungered after more 

than bread. 
My sister Marian ? — Can I hurt thee, 

dear? 
Then why distrust me ? Never tremble 

so. 
Come with me rather where we'll talk 

and live 
And none shall vex us. I've a home for 

you 
And me and no one else ' . . . 

She shook her head. 
' A home for you and me and no one 

else 
Ill-suits one of us : I prefer to such, 
A, roof of grass on which a flower might 

spring. 
Less costly to me than the cheapest 

here ; 
And yet I could not, at this hour, afford 
A like home even. That you oft'er yours, 



I thank you. You are good as heaven 
Itself— 

As good as one I knew before , . Fare- 
well ! ' 

I loosed her hands. — ' In his name, no 
farewell !' 

(She stood as if I held her,) "for his 
sake, 

For his sake, Romney's ! by the good he 
meant. 

Ay, always ! by the love he pressed for 
once, — 

And by the grief, reproach, abandon- 
ment. 

He took in change ' . . 

' He, Romney ! who grieved him ? 

Who had the heart for'tV what reproach 
touched him ? 

Be merciful, — speak quickly.' 

' 'Iherefore come.' 

I answered with authority, — ' I think 

We dare to speak such things and name 
such names 

In the open squares of Paris ! ' 

Not a word 
She said, but in a gentle humbled way, 
(As one who had forgot herself in grief) 
Turned round and followed closely 

where I went. 
As if i led her by a narrow plank 
Across devouring waters, step by step, — 
And so in silence we walked on a mile. 

And then she stopped : her face was 

white as wax. 
' We go much further ?' 

' You are ill,' I asked, 
' Or tired V 

She looked the whiter for her smile. 
' There's one at home,' she said, ' has 

need of me 
By this time, — and I must not let him 

wait.' 

' Not even,' I asked, ' to hear of Romney 

Leigh ?' 
' Not even,' she said, ' to hear of Mister 

Leigh.' 

' In that case,' I resumed, ' I go with 

you. 
And we can talk the same thing there 

as here. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



None waits for me : I have my day to 
spend.' 

Her lips moved in a spasm without a 

sound, — 
But then she spoke. ' It shall be as you 

please ; 
And better so — 'tis shorter seen than 

told. 
And though you will not find inc worth 

your pains, 
That even, may be worth some pains to 

know 
For one as good as you are.' 

Then she led 
The way, and I, as by a narrow plank 
Across devouring waters, followed her, 
Stepping by her footsteps, breathing by 

her breath. 
And holding her with eyes that would 

not slip ; 
And so, without a word, we walked a 

mile. 
And .so, another mile, without a word. 

Until the peopled streets being all dis- 
missed, 

House-rows fwid groups all scattered 
like a flock. 

The market-gardens thickened, and the 
long 

White walls beyond, like spiders' out- 
side threads. 

Stretched, feeling blindly toward the 
country-fields 

Through half-built habitations and half- 
dug 

Foundations, — intervals of trenchant 
chalk, 

That bit betwixt the grassy uneven 
turfs 

Where goats (vine tendrils trailing from 
their mouths) 

Stood perched on edges of the cellarage 

Which should be, staring as about to 
leap 

To find their coming Bacchus. All the 
place 

Seemed less a cultivation than a waste : 

Men work here, only, — scarce begin to 
live : 

All's sad, the country struggling with 
the town, 



Like an untamed hawk upon a strong 

man's fist. 
That beats its wings and tries to get 

away. 
And cannot choose be satisfied so soon 
To hop through court - yards with iu 

right foot tied. 
The vintage plains and pastoral hills in 

sight. 

We stopped beside a house too high and 

slim 
To stand there by itself, but waiting till 
Five others, two on this side, three on 

that, 
Should grow up from the sullen second 

floor 
They pause at now, to build it to a row. 
The upper windows partly were un- 

glazed 
Meantime, — a meagre, unripe house : a 

line 
Of rigid poplars elbowed it behind. 
And just in front, beyond the lime and 

bricks 
That wronged the grass between it and 

the road, 
A great acacia with its slender trunk 
And overpoise of multitudinous leaves, 
(In which a hundred fields might spill 

their dew 
And intense verdure, yet find room 

enough) 
Stood reconciling all the place with 

green. 

I followed up the stair upon her step. 

She hurried upward, shot across a face. 

A woman's on the landing, — ' How now, 
now ! 

Is no one to have holidays but you? 

You said an hour, and staid three hours, 
I think. 

And Julie waiting for your betters here ? 

Why if he had waked, he might have 
waked, for me.' 

— Just murmuring an e.xcusing word she 
passed 

And shut the rest out with the chamber- 
door. 

Myself shut in beside her. 

'Twas a room 

Scarce larger than a grave, and near as 
bare ; 



AURORA LEIGH. 



JX3 



Two stools, a pallet-bed ; I saw the 

room : 
A mouse could find no sort of shelter 

in't, 
I\Iuch less a greater secret ; curtain- 
less, — 
The window fixed you with its torturing 

eye. 
Defying you to take a step apart 
If peradventure you would hide a thing. 
I saw the whole room, I and Marian 

there 
Alone. 

Alone ? She threw her bonnet off". 
Then sighing as 'twere sighmg the last 

time. 
Approached the bed, and drew a shawl 

away : 
You could not peel a fruit you f jar to 

bruise 
More calmly and more carefully ilian 

so, — 
Nor would yoa find within, a rosier 

flushed 
Pomegranate — 

There he lay upon liis back. 
The yearling creature, warm and moist 

with life 
To the bottom of his dimples, — to llic 

ends 
Of the lovely tumbled curls abor.t liis 

face ; 
For since he had been covered over- 
much 
To keep him from the light glare, bot'.x 

his clieeks 
V/ere hot and scarlet a> the first live 

rose 
The shepherd's heart-blood ebbed away 

into. 
The faster for his love. And Ijvc v/as 

here 
As instant : in the pvetty baby-mouth. 
Shut close as if for dreaming that it 

sucked ; 
The little naked feet drawn up the way 
Of nestled birdlings ; everything so 

soft 
And tender, — to the tiny holdfast 

hands. 
Which, closing on the finger into sleep. 
Had kept the mould oft. 

While we stood there dumb. 



For oh, that it should take such inno- 
cence 

To prove just guilt, I thought, and stood 
there dumb ; 

The light upon his eyelids pricked them 
wide, 

And, staring out at us with all their 
blue. 

As half perplexed between the angel- 
hood 

He had been away to visit in his .sleep. 

And our most mortal presence, — gradu- 
ally 

He saw his mother's face, accepting it 

In change for heaven itself, with such a 
smile 

As might have well been learnt there, — 
never moved. 

But smiled on in a drowse of ecstasy. 

So happy (half with her and lialf with 
heaven) 

He could not have the trouble to bo 
stirred. 

But smiled and lay there. Like a rose, 
1 said : 

As red and still indeed as any rose, 

That blows in all the silence of its 
leaves. 

Content, in blowing, to fulfil its life. 

She leaned above him (drinking him a< 

wine) 
In that extremity of love, 'twill pass 
For agony or rapture, seeing that love 
Includes the whole of nature, rounding 

it 
To love . . no more, — since more can 

never be 
Than just love. Self-forgot, cast out of 

self. 
And drowning iu the transport of the 

sight. 
Her whole pale passionate face, mouth, 

forehead, eyes. 
One gaze, she stood : then, slowly as he 

smiled. 
She smiled too, slowly, smiling unaware. 
And drawing from his countenance to 

hers 
A fainter red, as if she watched a flame 
And stood in it a-glow. ' How beauti- 
ful.' 
Said she. 



"4 



AURORA LEIGH. 



I answered, trying to be cold. 
(Must sin have compensations, was my 

thought, 
As if it were a holy thing like grief? 
And is a woman to be fooled aside 
From putting vice down, with that wo- 
man's toy 

A baby ?) ' Ay ! the child is well 

enough,' 
I answered. ' If his mother's palms are 

clean 
They need be glad of course in clasping 

such : 
But if not, — I would rather lay my hand. 
Were I she, — on God's brazen altar-bars 
Red-hot with burning sacrificial lambs, 
Than touch the sacred curls of such a 
child.' 

She plunged her fingers in his clustering 
locks. 

As one who would not be afraid of fire ; 

And then with indrawn steady utter- 
ance said, 

* My lamb, my lamb ! although, through 
such as thou. 

The most unclean got courage and ap- 
proach 

To God, once, — now they cannot, even 
with men. 

Find grace enough for pity and gentle 
words.' 

'My Marian,' I made answer, grave 

and sad, 
' The priest who stole a lamb to offer 

him, 
"Was still a thief. And if a woman steals 
(Through God's own barrier-hedges of 

true love. 
Which fence out license in securing 

love) 
A child like this, that smiles so in her 

face. 
She is no mother but a kidnapper. 
And he's a dismal orphan . . not a son ; 
Whom all her kisses cannot feed so full 
He will not miss hereafter a pure home 
To live in, a pure heart to lean against, 
A pure good mother's name and mem- 
ory 
To hope by, when the world grows thick 

and bad. 
And he feels out for virtue.' 



' Oh,' .she smiled 

With bitter patience, ' the child takes 
his chance. 

Not much worse off in being fatherless 

Than I was, fathered. He will say, be- 
like. 

His mother was the saddest creature 
born ; 

He'll say his mother lived so contrary 

To joy, that even the kindest, seeing her. 

Grew sometimes almost cruel : he'll not 
say 

She flew contrarious in the face of God 

With bat-wings of her vices. Stole my 
child,— 

My flower of earth, my only flower on 
earth. 

My sweet, my beauty !' . . Up she 
snatched the child. 

And, breaking on him in a storm of 
tears, 

Drew out her long sobs from their shiver- 
ing roots. 

Until he took it for a game, and stretch- 
ed 

His feet and flapped his eager arms like 
wings. 

And crowed and gurgled through his 
infant laugh : 

' Mine, mine,' she said ; ' I have as sure 
a right 

As any glad proud mother in the world. 

Who sets her darling down to cut his 
teeth 

Upon her church-ring. If she talks of 
law. 

I talk of law ! I claim my mother-dues 

By law, — the law which now is para- 
mount ; 

The common law, by which the poor 
and weak 

Are trodden underfoot by vicious men. 

And loathed for ever after by the good. 

Let pass ! I did not filch . . I found 
the child.' 

' You found him, Marian V 

' Ay, I found him where 
I found my cur.se, — in the gutter, with 

my shame ! 
What have you, any of you, to say to 

that, 
Who all are happj'.and sit safe and high 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And never spoke before to arraign my 

right 
To grief itself ? What, what, . . being 

beaten down 
By hoofs of maddened oxen into a ditch. 
Half-dead, whole mangled, . when a girl 

at last. 
Breathes, sees . . and finds there, bed- 
ded in her flesh, 
Because of the extremity of the shock. 
Some com of price ! . . and when a 

good man comes 
(That's God ! the best men are not quite 

as good) 
And says, ' I dropped the coin there : 

take it you. 
And keep it,— it shall pay you for. the 

loss,' — 
You all put up your finger — ' See the 

thief ! 
' Observe that precious thing she has 

come to filch : 
' How bad those girls are !' Oh, my 

flower, my pet, 
I dare forget I have you in my arms. 
And fly oft" to be angry with the world. 
And fright you, hurt you with my tem- 
pers, till 
You double up your lip? Why, that 

indeed 
Is bad : a naughty mother ! 

' You mistake,' 
I interrupted, ' If I loved you not, 
I should not, Marian, certainly be here. 

* Alas,' she said, ' you are so very good ; 

And yet I wish indeed you had never 
come 

To make me sob until I vex the child. 

It is not wholesome for these pleasure- 
plats 

To be so "early watered by our brine. 

And then, who knows ? he may not like 
me now 

As well, perhaps, as ere he saw me fret. 

One's ugly fretting ! he has eyes the 
same 

As angels, but he cannot see as deep. 

And so I've kept for ever in his sight 

A sort of smile to please him, as you 
place 

A green thing from the garden in a cup. 

To make believe it grows there Look, 
roy sweet, 



RIy cowslip-ball ! we've done with that 

cross face. 
And here's the face come back you 

used to like. 
Ah, ah ! he laughs ! he likes me. Ah, 

Miss Leigh, 
You're great and pure; but were you 

purer still, — 
As if you had walked, we'll say, no 

otherwhere 
Than up and down the new Jerusalem, 
And held your trailing lutestring up 

yourself 
From brushing the twelve stones, for 

fear of some 
Small speck as little as a needle-prick. 
White stitched on white, — the child 

would keep to me 
Would choose his poor lost Marian, like 

me best, 
And, though you stretched your arms, 

cry back and cling. 
As we do when God says it's time to die 
And bids us go up higher. Leave us, 

then ; 
We two are happy. Does he push me off? 
He's satisfied with me, as I with him.' 

' So soft to one, so hard to others ! Nay,' 
1 cried, more angry that she melted me, 
' We make henceforth a cushion of our 

faults 
To sit and practise easy virtues on ? ■ 
I thought a child was given to sanctify" 
A woman, — set her in the sight of all 
The clear- eyed heavens, a chosen min- 
ister 
To do their business and lead spirits up 
The difficult blue heights. A woman 

lives. 
Not bettered, quickened toward the 

truth and good 
Through being a mother ? . . then she's 

none ! although 
She damps her baby's cheeks by kissing 

them. 
As we kill roses ' 

' Kill ! O Christ,' she said. 
And turned her wild sad face from side 

to side 
With most despairing wonder in it — 

' What, 
What have you in your souls against me 

then, 



ii6 



AURORA LEIGH. 



All of you ? am I wicked, do you think ? 
God knows me, trusts mc with a child ; 

but you, 
Vou think me really wicked V 

'Complaisant' 
I answered softly, ' to a wrong you've 

done. 
Because of certain profits, — which i.i 

wrong 
Beyond the first wrong, Marian. When 

you left 
The pure place and the noble heart, to 

take 
The hand of a seducer' . . 

' Whom ? whose hand ? 
I took the hand of . . 

Springing up erect 
And lifting up the child at full arms' 

length. 
As if to bear him like an oriflamme 
Unconquerable to armies of reproach, — 
• By him' she said, ' my child's head 

and its curls. 
By those blue eyes no woman born could 

dare 
A perjury on, I make my mother's oath. 
That if I left that Heart, to lighten it, 
The blood of mine was still, except for 

grief! 
No cleaner maid than I was, took a step 
To a sadder end, — no matron-mother 

now 
Looks backward to he>: early maiden- 
hood 
Through chaster pulses. I speak stead- 
ily : 
And if I lie so, . . if, being fouled in 

will 
And paltered with in soul \)y devil's 

lust, 
I dared to bid this angel take my part, . . 
Would God sit qyiet, let us think, in 

heaven. 
Nor strike me dumb with thunder ? Vet 

I speak : 
He clears me therefore. What, 'se- 
duced' 's your word ? 
Do wolves seduce a waiidering fawn in 

France? 
Do eagles, who have pinched a lamb 

with claws. 
Seduce it into carrion ? So with me. 
I was not ever, as you say, seduced, 
But simply, murdered.* 



There she paused, and sighed, 
With such a sigh as drops from agony 
To exhaustion, — sighing while she let 

the babe 
Slide down upon her bosom from her 

arms. 
And all her face's light fell after him. 
Like a torch quenched in falling. 

Down she sank. 
And he sate upon the bedside with the 

child. 
But L convicted, broken utterly. 
With woman's passion clung about her 

waist. 
And kissed her hair and eyes, — ' I have 

been wrong. 
Sweet Marian ' . . (weeping in a tender 

rage) 
'Sweet holy Marian ! And now, iNIa- 

rian, now, 
I'll use your oath although my lips are 

hard, 
And by the child, my Marian, by the 

child, 
I'll swear his mother shall be innocent 
Before my conscience, as in the open 

Book 
Of Him who reads our judgment. In- 
nocent, 
My sister ! let the night be ne'er so 

dark, 
The moon is surely somewhere in the 

So surely is your whiteness to be foun ! 
Through all dark facts. But pardon, 

pardon me. 
And smile a little, Marian, — for the 

child. 
If not for me, my sister.' 

The poor lip 
Just motioned for the smile and let it 

S° = . 

And then, with scarce a stirring of the 

mouth, 
As if a statue spoke that could not 

breathe. 
But spoke on calm between its marble 

lips, — 
' I'm glad, I'm very glad you clear me 

so. 
I should be sorry that you set me down 
With harlots, or with even a better 



AURORA LEIGH. 



"7 



Which misbecomes his mother. For 
the rest 

I am not on a level with your love. 

Nor ever vjas, you know, — but now am 
worse. 

Because that world of yours has dealt 
with me 

As when the hard sea bites and chews a 
stone 

And changes the first form of it. I've 
marked 

A shore of pebbles bitten to one shape 

From all the various life of madre- 
pores ; 

And so, that little stone, called Marian 
Erie, 

Picked up and dropped by you another 
friend. 

Was ground and tortured by the inces- 
sant sea 

And bruised from what she was, — 
changed ! death's a change. 

And she, I said, was murdered ; Ma- 
rian's dead. 

What can you do with people when 
they are dead. 

But, if you are pious, sing a hymn and 

Or, if you are tender, heave a sigh and 

go. 
But go by all means, — and permit the 

grass 
To keep its green feud up 'twixt them 

and you ? 
Then leave me, — let me rest. I'm 

dead, I say. 
And if, to save the child from death as 

well. 
The mother in me has survived the 

rest, 
AVhy, that's God's miracle you must not 

tax, 
I'm not less dead for that : I'm nothing 

more 
But just a mother. Only for the child, 
I'm warm, and cold, and hungry, and 

afraid. 
And smell the flowers a little, and see 

the sun. 
And speak still, and am silent, — ^just for 

him ! 
I pray you therefore to mistake me not. 
And treat me haply as I were alive ; 
For though you ran a pin into my soul. 



I think it would not hurt or trouble me. 
Here's proof, dear lady, — in the mark- 
et-place 
But now, you promised me to say a 

word 
About . . a friend, who once, long years 

ago. 
Took God's place toward me, when He 

leans and loves 
And does not thunder, . . whom at last 

I left. 
As all of us leave God. You thought 

perhaps 
I seemed to care for hearing of that 

friend ? 
Now, judge me ! we have sate here half 

an hour 
And talked together of the child and 

me. 
And 1 not asked as much as, ' What's 

the thing 
You had to tell me of the friend . . the 

friend ? ' 
He's sad, I think you said, — he's sick 

perhaps ? 
'Tis nought to Marian if he's sad or sick. 
Another would have crawled beside 

your foot 
And prayed your words out. Why, a 

beast, a dog, 
A starved cat, if he had fed it once with 

milk. 
Would show less hardness. But I'm 

dead, you see, 
And that explains it.' 

Poor, poor thing, .she spoke 
And shook her head, as white and calm 

as frost 
Or days too cold for raining any more. 
But still with such a face, so much 

alive, 
I could not choose but take it on my 

arm 
And stroke the placid patience of its 

cheeks, — 
And told my story out, of Romney 

Leigh, 
How, having lost her, sought her, missed 

her still. 
He, broken-hearted for himself and her. 
Had drawn the curtains of the world 

awhile 
As if he had done with morning. Ther« 

I stopped, 



ii8 



AVkORA LEIGH. 



For when she gasped, and pressed me 

with her eyes, 
' And now . . how is it with him % tell 

me now,' 
I felt the shame of compensated grief, 
And chose my words with scruple — 

slowly stepped 
Upon the slippery stones set here and 

there 
Across the sliding water. ' Certainly 
As evening empties morning into night. 
Another morning takes the evening up 
With healthful, providential inter- 
change ; 
And though he thought still of her,' — 

' Yes, she knew 
She understood : she had supposed, in- 
deed. 
That, as one stops a hole upon a flute, 
At which a new note comes and shapes 

the tune. 
Excluding her would bring a worthier 

in. 
And, long ere this, that Lady Waldemar 
He loved so ' . . 

'Loved,' I started, — ' loved her so I 
Now tell me ' . . 

' I will tell you,' she replied : 
' But since we're taking oaths, you'll 

promise first 
That he in England, he, shall never 

learn 
In what a dreadful trap his creature 

here. 
Round whose unworthy neck lie had 

meant to tie 
The honourable ribbon of his name. 
Fell unaware and came to butchery ; 
Because. — I know him, — as he takes to 

heart 
The grief of every stranger, he's not 

like 
To banish mine as far as I could choose 
In wishing him most happy. Now he 

leaves 
To think of me, perverse, who went m}- 

way. 
Unkind, and left him, — but if once he 

knew . . 
Ah, then, the sharp nail of my cruel 

wrong 
Would fasten me forever in his sight. 
Like some poor curious bird, through 
each spread wing 



Nailed high up over a fierce hunter's 

fire. 
To spoil the dinner of all tenderer folk 
Come in by chance. Nay, since your 

Marian's dead, 
You shall not hang her up, but dig a 

hole 
And bury her in silence ! ring no bells.' 



I answered gaily, though my whole 

voice wept ; 
' We'll ring the joy-bells, not the fune- 
ral-bells. 
Because we have her back, dead or 

alive.' 
She never answered that, but shook her 

head ; 
Then low and calm, as one who, safe in 

heaven. 
Shall tell a story of his lower life, 
Unmoved by shame or anger, — so she 

spoke. 
She told me she had loved upon her 

knees. 
As others pray, more perfectly absorbed 
In the act and inspiration. She felt his 
For just his uses, not her own at all. 
His stool, to sit on or put up his foot. 
His cup, to fill with wine or vinegar, 
Whichever drink might please him at 

the chance. 
For that should please her always : let 

him write 
His name upon her. . itseemed natural ; 
It was most precious, standing on his 

shelf. 
To wait until he chose to lift his hand. 
Well, well, — I saw her then, and must 

have seen 
How bright her life went floating on her 

love, 
Like wicks the housewives send afloat 

on oil 
Which feeds them to a flame that lasts 

the night. 

To do good seemed so much liis busi- 
ness. 

That, having done it, she was fain to 
think, 

Must fill up his capacity for joy. 

At first she never mooted with herself 

\i kc was happy, since he made her ro. 



AUnORA LEIGH. 



"9 



Or if he loved her, being so much be- 
loved : 

Who thinks of asking if the sun is light, 

Ol^erving that it lightens? who's so 
bold. 

To question God of His felicity ? 

Still less. And thus she took for granted 
first. 

What first of all she should have put to 
proof, 

And sinned against him so, but only so. 

• What could you hope,' she said, ' of 
such as she ? 

You take a kid you like, and turn it out 

In some fair garden ; though the crea- 
ture's fond 

And gentle, it will leap upon the beds 

And break your tulips, bite your tender 
trees : 

The wonder would be if such innocence 

Spoiled less. A garden is no place for 
kids.' 

And, by degrees, when he wlio had 

chosen her. 
Brought in his courteous and benignant 

friends 
To spend their goodness on her, which 

she took 
So very gladly, as a part of his, — 
By slow degrees it broke on her slow 

sense. 
That she too in that Eden of delight 
Was out of place, as like the silly kid. 
Still did most mischief where she meant 

most love. 
A thought enough to make a woman 

mad, 
(No beast in this but she may well go 

mad) 
That saying ' 1 am thine to love and use ' 
May blow the plague in her protesting 

breath 
To the very man for whom she claims to 

die, — 
That, clinging round his neck, she pulls 

him down 
And drowns him, — and that, lavishing 

iier soul, 
She hales perdition on him. ' So, being 

mad,' 
Said Marian . . 

' Ah — who stirred s.ich thoughts, you 

ask? 



Whose fault it was, that she should have 

such thoughts ? 
None's fault, none's fault. The light 

comes, and we see : 
But if it were not truly for our eyes. 
There would be nothing seen, for all the 

light ; 
And so with Marian. If she saw at last. 
The sense was in her, — Lady Waldemar 
Had spoken all in vain else.' 

• O my heart, 
O prophet in my heart,' I cried aloud, 
' Then Lady Waldemar spoke !' 

' Z>/rfshe speak,' 
Mused Marian softly — * or did she only 

sign ? 
Or did she put a word into her face 
And look, and so impress you with the 

word ? 
Or leave it in the foldings of her gown. 
Like rosemary smells, a movement will 

shake out 
When no one's conscious ? who shall say 

or guess ? 
One thing alone was certain, — from the 

day 
The gracious lady paid a visit first. 
She, Marian, saw things different,— felt 

distrust 
Of all that sheltering roof of circum- 
stance 
Her hopes were building into with clay 

nests : 
Her heart was restless, pacing up and 

down 
And fluttering, like dumb creatures be- 
fore the storms. 
Not knowing wherefore she was ill at 

case.' 
' And still the lady came,' said Marian 

Erie, 
' Much oftener than he knew it. Mister 

Leigh. 
She bade me never tell him slie had 

come, 
She liked to love me better than he 

knew, 
So very kind was Lady Waldemar : 
And every time she brought with her 

more light, 
And every light made sorrow clearer . . 

Well, 
Ah, well ! we cannot give her blame for 

that; 



AURORA LEIGH. 



'Twould be the same thing if an angel 

came. 
Whose right .should prove our wrong. 

And every time 
The lady came, she looked more beau- 
tiful, 
And spoke more like a flute among green 

trees. 
Until at last, as one, whose heart being 

sad 
On Iiearing lovely music, suddenly 
Dissolves in weeping, 1 brake out in 

tears 
Before her . . asked her counsel . . ' had 

I erred 
' In being too happy ? would she set me 

straight? 
' For she, being wise and good and born 

above 
' The flats I had never climbed from, 

could perceive 

* If such as I might grow upon the hills; 
' And whether such poor herb sufficed to 

grow 

* For Romney Leigh to break his fast 

upon't, — 

* Or would he pine on such, or haply 

starve V 
She wrapt me in her generous arms at 

once. 
And let me dream a moment how it 

feels 
To have a real mother, like some girls : 
But when I looked, her face was young- 
er . . ay. 
Youth's too bright not to be a little 

hard, 
And beauty keeps itself still uppermost. 
That's true ! — though Lady Waldemar 

was kind. 
She hurt me, hurt as if the morning-sun 
Should smite us on the eyelids when we 

sleep. 
And wake us up with headache. Ay, 

and soon 
Was light enou:h to make my heart 

ache too : 
She told me truths I asked for . . 'twas 

my fault . . 
'That Romney could not love me if he 

would, 

* As men call loving ; there arc bloods 

that flow 
' Together like some rivers and not mix. 



' Through contraries of nature. He in- 

deed 
' Was set to wed me, to espouse my class, 
'Act out a rash opinion, — and, once 

wed, 
' So just a man and gentle could not 

choose 
' But make my life as smooth as mar- 
riage-ring, 
' Bespeak me mildly, keep me a cheer- 
ful house, 
' With servants, brooches, all the flowers 

I liked. 
And pretty dresses, silk the whole year 

round ' . . 
At which I stopped her, — ' This for me. 

And now 
' For hi7n.' — She hesitated, — truth grew 

hard ; 
She owned, ' 'Twas plain a man like 

Romney Leigh 
' Required a wife more level to himself. 
'If day by day he had to bend his 

height 
'To pick up sympathies, opinions. 

thoughts, 
' And interchange the common talk cf 

life 
' Which helps a man to live as well as 

talk, 
' His days were heavily taxed. Who 

buys a stafl" 
•To fit the hand, that reaches but the 

knee? 
' He'd feel it bitter to be forced to mi.ss 
' The perfect joy of married suited pairs, 
' Who bursting through the separating 

hedge 
' Of personal dues with that sweet eglan- 
tine 
' Of equal love, keep saying, ' So ive 

think, 
"It strikes us, — that's our fancy." — 

When I asked 
If earnest will, devoted love, employed 
In youth like mine, would fail to raise 

me up, 
As two strong arms will always raise a 

child 
To a fruit hung overhead ? she sighed 

and sighed . . 
'That could not be,' she feared. ' You 

take a pink, 
' You dig about the roots and water it. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



• And so improve it to a garden-pink, 

' But will not change it to a heliotrope, 
'The liind remains. And then, the 

harder truth — 
' This Romney Leigh, t.o rr.sh to leap a 

pale, 
' So bold for conscience, quick for mar- 
tyrdom, 
' Would suffer steadily and never flinch, 
' But suffer surely and keenly, when his 
class 

• Turned shoulder on him for a shameful 

match, 
' And set him up as nine-pin in their 

talk, 
' To bowl him down with jestings.' — 

There, she paused ; 
And when I used the pause in doubting 

that 
We wronged him after all in what we 

feared — 
' Suppose such things should never 

touch him more 
' In his high conscience (if the thing 

should be,) 
' Than, when the queen sits in an upper 

room, 
'The horses in the street can spatter 

her!'- 
A moment, hope came, — but the lady 

closed 
The door and nicked the lock and shut 

it out. 
Observing wisely that, ' the tender 

heart 
' Which made him over-soft to a lower 

class, 

• Would scarcely fail to make him sensi- 

tive 
' To a higher, — how they thought and 
what they felt. 

' Alas,' alas,' said Marian, rocking slow 
The pretty baby who was near asleep. 
The eyelids creeping over the blue 

balls,— 
She made it clear, too clear — I sr.v/ thj 

whole ! 
And yet who knows if I had seen iny 

way 
Straight out of it by looking, though 

'twas clear, 
Unless the generous lady, 'ware of this. 
Had set her own house all a-firc for me, 



To light me forwards ? Leaning on my 

face 
Her heavy agate eyes which crushed 

my will, 
Slie told me tenderly, (as when men 

come 
To a bedside to tell people they must 

die) 
' She knew of knowledge, — ay, of 

knowledge knew, 
' That Romney Leigh had loved Jier for- 
merly : 
' And she loved Jiim, she might say, 

now the chance 
' Was past . . but that, of course, lie 

never guessed, — 
'For something came between them . . 

something thin 
' As a cobweb . . catching every fly of 

doubt 
' To hold it buzzing at the window-pane 
' And help to dim the daylight. Ah 

man's pride 
' Or woman's — which is greatest ? mort 

averse 
'To brushing cobwebs? Well, but she 

and he 
' Remained fast friends ; it seemed not 

more than so, 
' Because he had bound his hands and 

could not stir : 
' An honourable man, if somewhat 

rash ; 
'And she, not even for Romney, would 

she spill 
' A blot . . as little even as a tear . . 
' Upon his marriage-contract — not to 

gain 
' A better joy for two than came by 

that : 
' For, though I stood between her heart 

and heaven, 
'She loved me wholly." 

Did I laugh or curse ? 
I think I sate there silent, hearing all, 
Ay, hearing double, — Marian's tale, at 

once. 
And Romney 's marriage- vow, ' I'll keep. 

to THEE,' 

Which means that woman-serpent. I.J 

it time 
For church now ? 

' Lady Waldemar spoke more.' 
Continued Marian, 'but as when a soul 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Will pass out through the sweetness of 

a song 
Beyond it, voyaging the uphill road, — 
Even so mine wandered from the things 

I heard 
To those I suffered. It vas afterward 
I shaped the resolution to the act. 
For many hours wc talked. "What 

need to talk ? 
The fate was clear and close ; it 

touched ray eyes ; 
But still the generous lady tried to keep 
The case afloat, and would not let it go. 
And argued, struggled upon Marian's 

side, 
AVhich was not Romney's ! though she 

little knew 
What ugly monster would take up the 

end, — 
AVhat griping death within the drown- 
ing death 
Was ready to complete my sum of 

death.' 
I thought, — Perhaps he's sliding now 

the ring 
Upon that woman's fmger. . 

She went on : 
The lady, failing to prevail her way, 
Upgathered my torn wishes from tho 

ground 
And pieced them with licr strong bene- 
volence ; 
And, as I thought I could breathe freer 

air 
Away from England, going vv^ithoi-.t 

pause, 
V/ithout farewell, — ^jur.t breaking willi 

a jerk 
The blossomed olTshootfroin my thorny 

life, — 
She promised kindly to i;rovidc llic 

means. 
With instant passage to the colonies 
And full protection,' would commit ine 

straight 

• To one who once had beea her wait- 

ing-maid 

* And had the customs of the world, in- 

tent 
' On chnnging England for Australia 
' Herself to carry out her fortune so.' 
For which 1 thanked the Lady Walde- 

mar. 



As men upon their death-beds thank 
last friends 

Who lay the pillow straight : it is not 
much, 

And yet 'tis all of which they are capa- 
ble. 

This lying smoothly in a bed to die. 

And so, 'twas fixed ; — and so, from day 
to day. 

The woman named came in to visit 
me,' 

Just then, the girl stopped speaking, — 

sate erect, 
And stared at me as if I had been a 

ghost, 
(Perhaps I looked as white as any 

ghost) 
With large-eyed horror. ' Does God 

make,' she said, 
' All sorts of creatures really, do you 

think ? 
Or is it that the Devil slavers them 
So excellently, that we come to doubt 
Who's stronger. He who makes, or he 

who mars? 
I never liked the woman's face or voice 
Or ways : it made me blush to look at 

her ; 
It made me tremble if she touched my 

hand ; 
And when she spoke a fondling word 

I shrank 
As if one hated me v/ho had power to 

hurt ; 
vVnd every time she came, my veins ran 

cold 
As somebody were walking on my 

grave. 
At last I spoke to Lady Waldemar : 
• Could such an one be good to trust ?' 

I asked. 
Whereat the ladystroftedmy cheek and 

laughed 
Her silver-laugh — (one must be born to 

laugh. 
To put such music in it) ' Foolish girl, 
' Your scattered wits are gathering wool 

beyond 
'The sheep-walk reaches I — leave the 

thing to me ' 
And therefore, half in trust, and half in 

scorn 
That I had heart still for another fear 



AURORA LEIGH. 



123 



In such a safe despair, I left the thing. 
' The rest is short. 1 was obedient : 
I wrote my letter which delivered /;/;« 
From Marian to his own prosperities, 
And followed that bad guide. The 

lady ?— hush, 
I never blame the lady. Ladies who 
•'Sit high, however willing to look down, 
Will scarce see lower than their dainty 

feet : 
And Lady Waldemar saw less than I, 
With what a Devil's daughter I went 

forth 
Along the swine's road, down the preci- 
pice. 
In such a curl of hell-foam caught and 

choked. 
No shriek of soul in anguish could pierce 

through 
To fetch some help. They say there's 

help in heaven 
For all such cries. But if one cries from 

hell . . . 
What then ? — the heavens are deaf upon 

that side. 
' A woman . . hear mc, — let nic make it 

plain, — 
A woman . . not a monster . . botli l;cr 

breasts 
Made right to suckle Isabes . . d\c took 

me off , 

A woman also, young and ignorant 
And heavy with my grief, my two poor 

eyes 
Near washed away with weeping, till j 

the trees. 
The blessed unaccustomcil trees and I 

fields I 

Ran either side the train like stranger 

dogs 
Unworthy of any notice, — took mc off. 
So dull, so blind, so only half alive. 
Not seeing by what road, nor by what 

ship. 
Nor toward what place, nor to v.lir.t end 

of all. 
Men carry a corpse thus, — past the doer- 
way, past 
The garden-gate, the children's play- 
ground, up 
The green lane, — then they leave it in 

the pit, 
I'o sleep and find corruption, cheek to 

cheek j 



With him who stinks since Friday. 

' But suppose ; 
To go down with one's soul into the 

grave, 
To go down half dead, half alive, I say. 
And wake up with corruption, . . cheek 

to cheek 
With him who stinks since Friday 1 

There it is, 
And that's the horror oft, Miss Leigh. 

' You feel 'i 
You understand ? — no, do not look .-\t 

me. 
But understand. The blank, blind, 

weary way 
Which led . . where'er it led . . away at 

least ; 
The shifted ship . . to Sydney or to 

France, 
Still bound, wherever else, to another 

land ; 
The swooning sickness on the dismal 

sea. 
The foreign shore, the shameful house, 

the night. 
The feeble blood, the heavy-headed 

grief, ... 
No need to bring their damnable drug- 
ged cup. 
And yet they brought it. Hell's eo 

prodigal 
Of devil's gifts . . . hunts liberally in 

packs. 
Will kill no poor small creature of the 

wild s 
But fifty red wide throats must smoke 

at it. 
As HIS at mc . . when waking up at 

last . . 
I told you that I waked up in the grave. 

' Enough so ! — it is plain enough so. 

True, 
We wretches cannct tell out all oi:r 

wrong 
Without offence to decent happy folk. 
I know that we must scrupulously hint 
With half-words, delicate reserves, the 

thing 
Which no one scrupled we should feci 

in full. 
Let pass the rest, th.en ; cnly L-r.vc rr.y 

oath 
L^pon this sleeping child — ma:-.';; violence 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Not man s seduction, made me vhat I 

am. 
As lost as . . I told hhn I should be lost: 
When mothers fail us, can we help our- 
selves ? 
That's fatal ! — And you call it being 

lost, 
That down came next day's noon and 

caught me there 
Half gibberaig and half raving on tlic 

floor, 
And wondering what had happened ir) 

in heaven, 
That suns should dare to shine when 

God himself 
Was certainly abolished. 

' I was mad. 
How many weeks, I know not, — many 

weeks. 
1 think they let me go, when I was mad, 
They feared my eyes and loosed me, r.s 

boys might 
A mad dog which they had tortured. 

Up and down 
I went by road and village, over tracts 
Of open foreign country, large and 

strange. 
Crossed everywhere by long thin pop- 
lar-lines 
Like fingers of some ghastly .skeleton 

Hand 
Through sunlight and through moon- 
light evermore 
Pushed out from hell itself to pluck mc 

back, 
And resolute to get me, slow and sure ; 
While every roadside Christ upon his 

cross 
Hung reddening through his gory 

wounds at me. 
And shook his nails in anger and came 

down 
To follow a mile after, wading up 
The low vines and green wheat, crying 

' Take the girl ! 
'She's none of mine from henceforth.' 

Then I knew 
(But this is somewhat dimmer than the 

rest) 
The charitable peasants gave me bread 
And leave to sleep in .straw : and twice 

the^ tied. 
At parting, Mary's image round my 

nick- 



How heavj-- it seemed ! as heavy as a 

stone ; 
A woman has been strangled with less 

weight : 
I threw it in a ditch to keep it clean 
And ease my breath a little, when none 

looked ; 
I did not need such safeguards : — brutal 

men 
Stopped short. Miss Leigh, in insult, 

when they had seen 
My face, — I must have had an awfr.l 

look. 
And so I lived : the weeks passed on, 

—I lived. 
'Twas living my old tramp-hfe o'er 

again, 
But, this time, in a dream, and hunted 

round 
By some prodigious Dream-fear at my 

back, 
Which ended 3^et : my brain cleared 

presently 
And there I sate, one evening, by the 

road, 
I, Marian Erie, myself, alone, imdone. 
Facing a sunset low upon the flats 
As if It were the finish of all time, 
The great red stone upon my sepulchre. 
Which angels were too weak to roll 

away. 



SEVENTH BOOK. 

1 HE woman's motive ? shall we daub 

ourselves 
With finding roots for nettles? 'tis soft 

clay 
And easily explored. She had the 

means. 
The monies, by the lady's liberal grace. 
In trust for that Australian scheme 

and mc, 
Which so, that she might clutch with 

both her hands 
And chink to her naughty uses undis- 
turbed , 
She served me (after all it was not 

strange ; 
'Twas only what my mother would 

have done) 



AURORA LEIGH. 
A motherly, right damnable good turn. 



' Well, after. There are nettles every- 
where. 

But smooth green grasses are more com- 
mon still ; 

The blue of heaven is larger than the 
cloud ; 

A miller's wife at Clidiy took me in 

And spent her pity on me, — made me 
calm 

And merely very reasonably sad. 

She found me a servant's place in Paris, 
where 

I tried to take a cast-ofF life again. 

And stood as quiet as a beaten ass 

Who, having fallen through overloads, 
stands up 

To let them charge him with another 
pack. 

A few months, so. My mistress, young 
and light. 

Was easy with me, less for kindness 
than 

Because she led, herself, an easy time 

Betwixt her lover and her looking- 
glass. 

Scarce knowing which way she was 
praised the most. 

She felt so pretty and so pleased all day 

She could not take the trouble to be 
cross. 

But sometimes, as I stooped to tie her 
shoe. 

Would tap me softly with her slender 
foot 

Still restless with the last night's danc- 
ing in't. 

And say, ' Fie, pale-face ! are you En- 
glish girls 

' All grave and silent ? mass-book still, 
and Lent ? 

' And first- communion pallor on your 
cheeks, 

' Worn past the time for't ? little fool, 
be gay ! ' 

At which she vanished, like a fairy, 
through 

A gap of silver laughter. 

' Came an hour 
When all went otherwise. She did not 
.speak, 



But clenched her brows, and clipped me 

with her eyes 
As if a viper, with a pair of tongs. 
Too far for any touch, yet near enough 
To view the writhing creature, — then at 

last, 
' Stand still there, in the holy Virgin's 

name, 
' Thou Marian ; thou'rt no reputable 

girl, 
' Although sufficient dull for twenty 

samts 1 
' I think thou mock'st me and my 

house,' 
' Confess thou'lt be a mother in a month, 
' Thou mask of saintship.' 

' Could I answer her ? 
The light broke in so : it meant that 

then, that ? 
I had not thought of that, in all my 

thoughts. 
Through all the cold, numb aching of 

my brow. 
Through all the heaving of impatient 

life 
Which threw me on death at intervals, 

through all 
The upbreak of the fountains of my 

heart 
The rains had swelled too large : it 

could mean that ? 
Did God make mothers out of victims, 

then. 
And set such pure amens to hideous 

deeds? 
Why noi; ? He overblows an ugly grave 
With violets which blossom in the 

spring. 
And / could be a mother in a month 1 
I hope it was not wicked to be glad. 
I lifted up my voice and wept, and 

laughed, 
To heaven, not her, until it tore my 

throat. 
' Confess, confess !' what was there to 

con fess, 
E.Kcept man's cruelty, except my wrong ? 
Except this anguish, or this ecstasy ? 
This shame or glory ? The light woman 

there 
Was small to take it in : an acorn-cup 
Would take the sea in sooner. 

" Good,' she cried ; 



AURORA LEIGH. 



• Unmarried and a mother, and she 

laughs ! 

* These unchaste girls are always impu- 

dent. 
' Get out, intriguer ? leave my house and 

trot : 
' I wonder you should look me in the 

face, 
' With such a filthy secret.' 

' Then I rolled 
My scanty bundle up and went my way. 
Washed white with weeping, shudder- 
ing head and foot 
With blind hysteric passion, staggering 

forth 
Heyond those doors. *Twas natural oi 

course 
She should not ask me where I meant to 

sleep : 
I might sleep well beneath the heavy 

Seine, 
Like others of my sort ; the bed was laid 
For us. But any woman, womanly, 
Had thought of him who should be in a 

month, 
The sinless babe that should be in a 

month, 
And if by chance he might be warmer 

housed 
Than underneath such dreary, dripping 

eaves.' 

I broke on Marian there. ' Yet she 
herself, 

A wife, I think, had scandalsof her own, 

A lover not her husband.' 

' Ay,' she said, 

' But gold and meal are measured other- 
wise ; 

I learnt so much at school,' said Marian 
Erie. 

' O crooked world,' I cried, ' ridiculous 
If not so lamentable ! It's the way 
With these liglit women of a thrifty 

vice, 
My Marian, — always hard upon the rent 
In any sister's virtue ! while they keep 
Their own so darned and patched with 

perfidy. 
That, though a rag itself, it looks as well 
Across a street, in balcony or coach. 
As any perfect stuff might. For my 

part, 



I'd rather take the wind-side of the 

stews 
Than touch such women with my finger- 
end ! 
They top the poor street-walker by their 

lie. 
And look the better for being so much 

worse : 
The devil's most devilish when respecta- 
ble. 
But you, dear, and your story.' 

' All the rest 
Is here,' she said, and signed upon the 

child. 
' I found a mistress-sempstress who was 

kind 
And let me sew in peace among her 

girls ; 
And what was better than to draw the 

threads 
All day and half the night for him and 

him ? 
And so I lived for him, and so he lives. 
And. so I know, by this time, God lives 

too.' 
She smiled beyond the sun and ended 

so. 
And all my soul rose up to take her 

part 
Against the world's successes, virtues, 

fames. 
' Come with me, sweetest sister,' I re- 
turned, 
' And sit within my house, and do me 

good 
From henceforth, thou and thine ! ye 

are my own 
From henceforth. I am lonely in the 

world. 
And thou art lonely, and the child ii 

half 
An orphan. Come, — and henceforth 

thou and I 
Being still together will not miss a friend. 
Nor he a father, since two mothers shall 
Make that up to him. I am journeying 

south. 
And in my Tuscan home I'll find a niche 
And set thee there, my .saint, the chdd 

and thee. 
And burn the lights of love before thy 

face. 
And ever i'.t thy sweet look cross my- 
self 



AURORA LEI.GH. 



From mixing with the world's prosperi- 
ties ; 
That so, in gravity and holy calm, 
We two may live on toward the truer 
life.' 

She looked me in the face and answered 

not. 
Nor signed she was unworthy, nor gave 

thanks. 
But took the sleeping child and held it 

out 
To meet my kiss, as if requiting me 
And trusting me at once. And thus at 

once, 
I carried him and her to where I lived ; 
She's there now, in the little room, 

asleep, 
I hear the soft child-breathing through 

the door ; 
And all three of us, at to-morrow's 

break. 
Pass onward, homeward, to our Italy. 
Oh, Romney Leigh, I have your debts 

to pay. 
And I'll be just and pay them. 

But yourself ! 
To pay your debts is scarcely difficult ; 
'lb buy your life is nearly impossible. 
Being sold away to Lamia. My head 

aches ; 
I cannot see my road along this dark ; 
Nor can I creep and grope, as fits the 

dark, 
For these foot-catching robes of woman- 
hood : 
A man might walk a little . . but I I — 

He loves 
The Lamia-woman, — and I, write to 

him 
What stops his marriage, and destroys 

his peace, — 
Or what perhaps shall simply trouble 

him, 
Until she only need to touch his sleeve 
With just a finger's tremulous white 

flame. 
Saying, ' Ah, — Aurora Leigh ! a pretty 

tale, 
' A very pretty poet ! I can guess 
' The motive,' — then, to catch his eyes ia 

hers, 
And vow she does not wonder, — and 

they two 



To break in laughter as the sea along 

A melancholy coast, and float up higher. 

In such a laugh, their fatal weeds of 
love ! 

Ay, fatal, ay. And who shall answer 
me 

Fate has not hurried tides ; aiad if to- 
night 

My letter would not be a night too late. 

An arrow shot into a man that's dead. 

To prove a vain intention ; Would I 
show 

The new wife vile, to make the husband 
mad ? 

No, Lamia ! shut the shutters, bar the 
doors 

From every glimmer on thy serpent- 
skin ! 

I will not let thy hideous secret out 

To agonise the man 1 love — 1 mean 

The friend I love . . as friends love. 

It is strange. 

To-day while Marion told her story Hke 

To absorb most listeners, how 1 listened 
chief 

To a voice not hers, nor yet that ene- 
my's. 

Nor God's in wrath, . . but one that 
mixed with mine 

Long years ago, among the garden- 
trees. 

And said to ine, to mc, too, ' Be niy 
wife, 

Aurora.' It i.-, .'■.trangc with what a 
swell 

Yearning passion, as a snow of ghosts 

Might beat against the impervious doors 
of heaven, 

I thought, 'Now, if I had been a wo- 
man, such 

As God made women, to save men by 
love, — 

By just my love I might have saved 
this man. 

And made a nobler poem for the world 

'ihan all I have failed in.' But I failed 
besides 

In this ; and now he's lost ! througli inc 
alone ! 

And, by my onlj' fault, his empty house 

Sucks in, at this same hour, a wind from 
hell 

To keep his hearth cold, make his csise- 
raent.s creak 



128 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Forever to the tune of plague and sin — 

O Romney, O my Romney, O my 
friend ! 

j\Iy cousin and friend ! m}'- helper, when 
1 would, 

I.Iy love, that might be ! mine ! 

Why, how one weeps 

V/hon one':i too weary ! Were a wit- 
ness by. 

He'd say some folly . . that I loved the 
man, 

V/ho knows ? . . and make me laugh 
again for scorn. 

At strongest, women are ar. weak in 
flesh. 

As men, at weakest, vilest, are in soul : 

So, hard for women to keep pace with 
men ! 

As well give up at once, sit down at 
once. 

And weep as I do. Tears, tears I ".vhy 
we weep ? 

'Tis worth inquiry? — That we've shamed 
a life. 

Or lost a love, or missed a world, per- 
haps ? 

By no means. Simply, that we've 
walked too far. 

Or talked too much, or felt the wind i' 
the e;xst, — 

And so we weep, as if both body ruid 
soul 

Broke up in water — this way. 

Poor mixed rags 

Forsooth we're made of, like those 
other dolls 
' That lean with pretty faces Into fairs. 

It seems as if I had a man in me. 

Despising such a woman. 

Yet indeed. 

To see a wrong or suffering moves us all 

To undo it, though we should undo our- 
selves ; 

Ay, all the more, that we imdo our- 
selves ; 

That's womanly, past doubt, and not ill- 
moved. 

A natural movement therefore, on my 
part. 

To fill the chair up of my cousin's wife, 

And save him from a devil's company ! 
We're all so, — made so, — 'tis our wo- 
man's trade 

To suffer torment for another'i case. 



The world's male chivalry has perished 
out. 

But women are knight-errant to the 
last ; 

And if Cervantes had been Shakes- 
pear* too. 

He had made his Don a Donna. 

So it clear'v 

And so we raiu onr skies blue. 

Put away 

This weakness. If, as I have just now 
said, 

A man's within me, — let him act him- 
self, 

Ignormg the poor conscious trouble of 
blood 

That's called the woman merely. I \\\\\ 
write 

Plain words to F-ngland. — if too late, too 
late. 

If ill-accounted, then accounted ill ; 

\ye'll trust the heavens with something. 

' Dear Lord Howe 
You'll find a story on another leaf 
Of Marion Erie, — what noble friend of 

yours 
She trusted once, through what flagi- 
tious means 
To what disastrous ends ; — the story's 

true. 
I found her wandering on the Paris 

quays, 
A babe upon her breast, — unnatural 
Unseasonable outcast on such snow 
Unthawed to this time. I will ta.v in this 
Your friendship, friend, — if that con- 
victed She 
Be not his wife yet, to denounce the 

facts 
To himself, — but, otherwise, to let them 

pass 
On tip- toe like escaping murderers, 
And tell my cousin merely — Marian 

lives, 
Is found, and finds her home with such 

a friend. 
Myself, Aurora. Which good news, 

'She's found,' 
Will help to make him merry in his love: 
I send it, tell him, for my marriage gift. 
As good as orange water for the nerves. 
Or perfumed gloves for headaches, — 
though aware 



AURORA LEIGH. 



That he, except of love, is scarcely sick: 
I mean the new love this time, . . since 

last year. 
Such quick forgetting on the part of 

men ! 
Is any shrewder trick upon the cards 
To enrich them ? pray instruct me how 

'tis done. 
First, clubs, — and while you look at 

clubs, 'tis spades ; 
That's prodigy. The lightning sLrikes a 

man, 
And when we think to find him dead 

and charred . . 
Why, there he is on a sudden, playing 

pipes 
Beneatli the splintered elm-tree ! Crime 

and shame 
And all their hoggery trample your 

smooth world. 
Nor leave more foot-marks than Apollo's 

kine. 
Whose hoofs were muffled by the thiev- 
ing god 
In tamarisk-leaves and myrtle. I'm so 

sad, 
So weary and sad to-night, I'm some- 
what sour, — 
Forgive me. To be blue and shrew at 

once. 
Exceeds all toleration e.xcept yours ; 
But yours, I know, is infinite. Fare- 
well. 
To-morrow we take train for Italy. 
Speak gently of me to your gracious 

wife. 
As one, however far. shall yet be near 
In loving wishes to your house.' 

I sign. 
And now I loose my heart upon a page. 
This — 

' Lady Waldemar, I'm very glad 
I never liked you ; which you knew so 

well 
You spared me, in your turn, to like me 

much. 
Your liking surely had done worse for 

me 
Tlian has your loathing, though the last 

appears 
Suffisiently imscrupnloiis to hurt. 
And not afraid of judgment. Now, 

there's space 
Between our faces,—! stand off, as if 



I judged a stranger's portrait and pro- 
nounced 
Indifferently the type was good or bad : 
What matter to me that the lines are 

false, 
I ask you ? Did I ever ink my lips 
By drawing your name through them as 

a friend's. 
Or touch your hands as lovers do ? 

thank God 
I never did : and, since you're proved 

so vile. 
Ay, vile, I say, — we'll show it presently, 
I'm not obliged to nurse my friend in 

you. 
Or wash out my own blots, in counting 

yours. 
Or even excuse myself to honest souls 
Who seek to touch my lip or clasp my 

palm, — 
' Alas, but Lady Waldemar came first !' 
'Tis true, by this time you may near me 

so 
That you're my cousin's wife. You've 

gambled deep 
As Lucifer, and won the morning-star 
In that case, — and the noble house ot 

Leigh 
Must henceforth with its good roof shel- 
ter j'ou : 
I cannot speak and burn you up between 
Those rafters, I who am born a Leigh, — 

nor speak 
And pierce your breast through Rom- 

ney's, I who live 
His friend and cousin ! — so, you're safe. 

You two 
Mast grow together like the tares and 

wheat 
Till God's great fire. — But make the 

best of time 

'And hide this letter! let it speak n» 
more 

Than I shall, how you tricked poor 
Marian Erie, 

And set her own love digging her own 
grave 

Within her green hope's pretty garden- 
ground ; 

Ay, sent her forth with some one of 
your sort 

To a wicked house in France, — from 
which she fled 



AURORA LEIGH. 



With curses in her eyes and cars and 
throat, 

Her whole soul choked with curses, — 
mad in short, 

And madly scouring up and down for 
weeks , 

The foreign hedgeless country, lone and 
lost, — 

So innocent, male-fiends might slink 
within 

Remote hell-corners, seeing her so de- 
filed. 

' But you, — you are a woman and mor ; 

bold. 
To do you justice, you'd not shrink to 

face . . 
V/e'U say the unfledged life in the other 

room. 
Which, treading down God's corn, you 

trod in sight 
Of all the dogs, in reach of all the 

guns,— 
Ay, Marian's babe, her poor unfathered 

child. 
Her yearling babe ! — you'd face him 

when he wakes 
And opens up his wonderful blue eyes : 
You'd meet them and not wink perhaps, 

nor fear 
God's triumph in them and supreme 

revenge. 
When righting His creation's balance- 
scale 
(You pulled as low as Tophet) to the 

top 
Of most celestial innocence. Forme 
Who am not as bold, I own those infant 

eyes 
Have set me praying. 

' While they look at heaven. 
No need of protestation in my words 
Against the place you've made them ! 

let them look ! 
They'll do your business with the heav- 
ens, be sure : 
I spare you common curses. 

' Ponder this. 
If haply you're the wife of Romney 

Leigh, 
(For which inheritance beyond your 

birth 
You sold that poisonous porridge called 

your soul) 



I charge you be his faithful and true 
wife ! 

Keep warm his hearth and clean his 
board, and, when 

He speaks, be quick with your obedi- 
ence ; 

Still grind your paltry wants and low 
desires 

To dust beneath his heel ; though even 
thus. 

The ground must hurt him, — it was writ 
of old. 

' Ye shall not yoke together o.x and 
ass/ 

The nobler and ignobler. Ay, but you 

Shall do your part as well as such ill 
things 

Can do aught good. You shall not vex 
him, — mark, 

You shall n(?t vex him . . jar him when 
he's sad. 

Or cross him when he's eager. Under- 
stand 

To trick him with apparent sympathies. 

Nor let him see thee in the face too 
near 

And unlearn thy sweet seeming. Pay 
the price 

Of lies, by being constrained to lie on 
still : 

'Tis easy for thy sort : a million more 

Will scarcely damn thee deeper. 

' Doing which 

You are very safe from Marian and my- 
self ; 

We'll breathe as softly as the infant 
here. 

And stir no dangerous embers. Fail a 
point. 

And show our Romney wounded, ill- 
content. 

Tormented in his home, . . we open 
mouth. 

And such a noise will follow the last 
trump's 

Will scarcely seem more dreadful, even 
to you ; 

You'll have no pipers after : Romney 
will 

(I know him) push you forth as none of 
his. 

All other men declaring it well done ; 

While women, even the worst, your 
like, will draw 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Their skirts back, not to brush yoa in 

the street ; 
And so I warn you. I'm . . . Aurora 

Leigh.' 

The letter written, I felt satislied. 

The ashes smouldering in me, were 
thrown out 

By handfuls from me : I had writ my 
heart 

And wept my tears, and now was cool 
and calm ; 

And, going straightway to the neigh- 
bouring room, 

I lifted up the curtains of the bed 

Where Marian Erie, the babe upon her 
arm, 

Both faces leaned together like a pair 

Of folded innocences, self-complete. 

Each smiling from the other, smiled 
and slept. 

There seemed no sin, no shame, no 
wrath, no grief 

I felt she too had spoken words that 
night, 

But softer certainly, and said to God, 

Who laughs in heaven perhaps thatsiich 
as I 

Should make ado for such as she. — ' De- 
filed ' 

I wrote? 'defiled' I thought her? 
Stoop, 

Stoop lower, Aurora ! get the angels' 
leave 

To creep in somewhere, humbly, on 
your knees. 

Within this I'ound of sequestration 
white 

In which they have wrapt earth's found- 
lings, heaven's elect. 

The next day we took train to Italy 
And fled on southward in the roar of 

steam. 
The marriage-bells of Romney must be 

loud, 
To sound so clear through all. I was 

not well ; 
And truly, though the truth is like a 

jest, 
I could not choose but fancy, half the 

way, 
I stood alone i' the belfry, fifty bells 
Of naked iron, mad with merriment. 



(As one who laughs and cannot stop 

himself) 
All clanking at me, in me. over me. 
Until I shrieked a shriek I could not 

hear. 
And swooned with noise, — but still, 

along my swoon. 
Was 'ware the baffled changes back- 
ward rang. 
Prepared, at each emerging sense, to 

beat 
And crash it out with clangour. I was 

weak ; 
I struggled for the posture of my soul 
In upright consciousness of place and 

time. 
But evermore, 'twixt waking and asleep. 
Slipped somehow, staggered, caught at 

Marian's eyes 
A moment, (it is very good for strength 
To know that some one needs you to be 

strong) 
And so recovered what 1 called myself. 
For that time. 

I just knew it when we swept 
Above the old roof of Dijon. Lyons 

dropped 
A spark into the night, half trodden out 
Unseen. But presently the winding 

Rhone 
Washed out the moonlight large along 

his banks. 
Which strained their yielding curves 

out clear and clean 
To hold it, — shadow of town and castle 

blurred 
Upon the hurrying river. Such an air 
Blew thence upon the forehead, — half an 

air 
And half a water, — that I leaned and 

looked ; 
Then, turning back on Marian, smiled to 

mark 
That she looked only on her child, who 

slept. 
His face toward the moon too. 

So we passed 
The liberal open country and the close. 
And shot through tunnels, like a light- 
ning-wedge 
By great Thor-hammers driven througli 

the rock. 
Which, quivering through the intestine 

blackness, splits, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And lets it in at once : the train swept 
in 

Athrob with effort, trembling with re- 
solve, 

The fierce denouncing whistle wailing 
on 

And dying off smothered in the shud- 
dering dark. 

While we, self-awed, drew troubled 
breath, oppressed 

As other Titans underneath the pile 

And nightmare of the mountains. Out, 
at last. 

To catch the dawn afloat upon the 
land ! 

— Hills, slung forth broadly and gauntly 
everywhere, 

Not crampt in their foundations, pushing 
wide 

Rich outspreads of the vineyards and 
the corn, 

(As if they entertained i' the name of 
France) 

While, down their straining sides, 
streamed manifest 

A soil as red as Charlemagne's knightly 
blood. 

To consecrate the verdure. Some one 
said 

* Marseilles ! ' And lo, the city of Mar- 
seilles, 

With all her ships behind her, and be- 
yond. 

The scimitar of ever-shining sea 

For right-hand use, bared blue against 
the sky ! 

That night we spent between the purple 

heaven 
And purple water : I think Marian 

slept ; 
Cut I, as a dog a-watch for his master's 

foot. 
Who cannot sleep or eat before he 

hears, 
I sate upon the deck and watched the 

night. 
And listened through the stars for Italy. 
Those marriage-bells I spoke of, sounded 

far. 
As some child's go-cart in the street be- 
neath 
To a dying man who will not pass the 

day. 



And knows it, holding by a hand lie 

loves. 
I too sate quiet, satisfied with death. 
Sate silent : I could hear my own soul 

speak. 
And had my friend, — for Nature comes 

sometimes 
And says, ' I am ambassador for God.' 
I felt the wind soft from the land of 

souls ; 
The old miraculous mountains heaved in 

sight. 
One straining past another along the 

shore. 
The way of grand dull Odyssean ghosts 
Athirst to drink the cool blue wine of 

seas 
And stare on voyagers. Peak pushing 

peak 
They stood : I watched beyond that 

Tyrian belt 
Of intense sea betwixt them and the 

ship, 
Down all their sides the misty olive- 
woods 
Dissolving in the weak congenial moon. 
And still disclosing some brown convent- 
tower 
That seems as if it grew from some 

brown rock. 
Or many a little lighted village, dropt 
Like a fallen star, upon so high a point. 
You wonder what can keep it in its 

place 
From sliding headlong with the water- 
falls 
Which powder all the myrtle and orange 

groves 
With spray of silver. Thus my Italy 
Was stealing on us. Genoa broke with 

day ; 
The Dona's long pale palace striking 

out. 
From green hills in advance of the white 

town, 
A marble finger dominant to ships. 
Seen glimmering through the uncertain 

gray of dawn. 

And then I did not think, ' my Italy,' 
I thought, ' my father !' O my father's 

house. 
Without his presence ! — Places arc too 

much 



AURORA LEIGH. 



133 



Or else too little, for immortal man ; 

Too little, when love's May o'ergrows 
the ground, — 

Too much, when that luxuriant robe of 
green 

Is rustling to our ankles in dead leaves. 

^Tis only good to be or here or there, 

Because we had a dream on such a stone. 

Or this or that, — but, once being wholly 
waked, 

And come back to the stone without a 
dream. 

We trip upon't, — alas ! and hurt our- 
selves ; 

Or else it falls on us and grinds us flat, 

The heaviest grave-stone on this bury- 
ing earth. 

— But while I stood and mused, a quiet 
touch 

Fell light upon my arm, and, turning 
round, 

A pair of moistened eyes convicted 
mine. 

' What, Marian ! is the babe astir so 
soon V 

' He sleeps,' she answered ; ' I have 
crept up thrice. 

And seen you sitting, standing, still at 
watch. 

I thought it did you good till now, but 
now' . . . 

' But now,' I said, 'you leave the child 
alone.' 

' And you're alone,' she answered, — and 
she looked 

As if I too were something. Sweet the 
help 

Of one we have helped ! Thanks, Ma- 
rian, for such help. 

I found a house at Florence on the hill 
Of Bellosguardo. 'Tis a tower that 

keeps 
A post of double-observation o'er 
The valley of Arno (holding as a hand 
The outspread city) straight toward Fie- 

sole 
And Mount Morello and the setting sun. 
The Vallombrosan mountains opposite, 
Which sunrise fills as full as crystal cups 
Turned red to the brim because their 

wine was red. 
No sun could die nor yet be born tmseen 
By dwellers at my villa : morn and eve 



Were magnified before us in the pure 
Illimitable space and pause of sky, 
Intense as angels' garments blanched 

with God, 
Less blue and radiant. From the outer 

wall 
Of the garden, drops the mystic floating 

gray 
Of olive-trees, (with interruptions green 
From maize and vinej until 'tis caught 

and torn 
Upon the abrupt black line of cypresses 
Which signs the way to Florence. Beau- 
tiful 
The city lies along the ample vale. 
Cathedral, tower and palace, piazza and 

street. 
The river trailing like a silver cord 
Through all, and curling loosely, both 

before 
And after, over the broad stretch of land 
Sown whltely up and down its opposite 

slopes 
With farm and villas. 

Many weeks had passed. 
No word was granted. — Last, a letter 

came 
From Vincent Carrington : — ' My dear 

Miss Leigh, 
You've been as silent "as a poet should. 
When any other man is sure to speak. 
If sick, if vexed, if dumb, a silver-piece 
Will split a man's tongue, — straight he 

speaks and says, 
' Received that cheque.' But you ! . . 

I send you funds 
To Paris, and you make no sign at all. 
Remember I'm responsible and wait 
A sign of you. Miss Leigh. 

' Meantime your book 
Is eloquent as if you were npt dumb ; 
And common critics, ordinarily deaf 
To such fine meanings, and, like deaf 

men, loth 
To seem deaf, answering chance-wise, 

yes or no, 
'It must be,' or 'it must not,' (most 

pronounced 
When least convinced) pronounced for 

once aright : 
You'd think they really heard, — and so 

they do . . 
The burr of three or four who really 

hear 



134 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And praise your book aright : Fame's 

smallest trump 
Is a great ear-trumpet for the deaf as 

posts. 
No other being effective. Fear not, 

friend ; 
"VVe think here you have written a good 

book. 
And you, a woman ! It was in you — yes, 
I felt 'twas in you : yet I doubted half 
If that od-force of German Reichen- 

bach 
Which still from female finger-tips burns 

blue, 
Could strike out as our masculine white 

heats, 
To quicken a man. Forgive me. All 

my heart 
Is quick with yours since, just a fortnight 

since, 
I read your book and loved it. 

' Will you love 
My wife, too ? Here's my secret I might 

keep 
A month more from you ! but I yield it 

up 
Because I know you'll write the sooner 

for't. 
Most women (of your height even) 

counting love 
Life's only serious business. Who's my 

wife 
That shall be in a month ? you ask ? nor 

guess ? 
Remember what a pair of topaz eyes 
You once detected, turned against the 

wall. 
That morning in my London paintinc;- 

room ; 
The face half-sketched, and slurred ; 

the eyes alone ! 
But you . . you caught them up with 

yours, and said 
* Kate Ward's eyes, surely.' — Now, I 

own the truth, 
I had thrown them there to keep them 

safe from Jove ; 
They would so naughtily find out their 

way 
To both the heads of both my Danaes, 
Where just it made me mad to look at 

them. 
Such eyes ! I could not paint or think of 

eyes 



But those, — and so I flung them into 

paint 
And turned them to the wall's care. 

Ay, but now 
I've let them out, my Kate's : I've 

painted her, 
(I'll change my style, and leave mytlio- 

logies) 
The whole sweet face ; it looks upon 

my soul 
Like a face on water, to beget itself, 
A half-length portrait,in a hanguig cloak 
Like one you wore once ; 'tis a little 

frayed ; 
I pressed too for the nude harmonious 

arm — 

But she . . she'd have her way, and have 

her cloak ; 
She said she could be like you only so. 
And would not miss the fortune. Ah, 

my friend. 
You'll write and say she shall not miss 

your love 
Through meeting mine ? in faith, she 

would not change : 
She has your books by heart more than 

my words. 
And quotes you up against mc till I'm 

pushed 
Where, three months since, her eyes 

were : nay, in fact. 
Nought satisfied her but to make mc 

paint 
Your last book folded ia her dimpled 

hands 
Instead of my brown palette, as I 

wished. 
And, granted me, the presentment had 

been newer ; 
She'd grant me nothing : I've com- 
pounded for 
The naming of the wedding-day next 

month, 
And gladly too. 'Tis pretty, to remark 
How women can love women of your 

sort. 
And tie their hearts with love-knots to 

your feet, 
Grow insolent about you against men. 
And put us down by putting up the lip. 
As if a man, — there rtr^such, let us own. 
Who write not ill, — remains a man, poor 

wretch. 



AL'/^OA'A 

While you ! Write weaker than 

Aurora Leigh, 
And there'll bo women who believe of 

you 
(Besides my Kate) that if you walked on 

sand 
You would not leave a foot-print. 

' Are you put 
To wonder by my marriage, like poor 

Leigh ? 
' Kate Ward !' he said. ' Kate Ward !' 

he said anew. 
' I thought . . . ' he said, and stopped, — 

' I did not think . . . ' 
And then he dropped to silence. 

' Ah, he's changed. 
I had not seen him, you're aware, for 

long. 
But went of course. I have not touched 

on this 
Through all this letter, — consciou.i of 

your heart. 
And writing lightller for the heavy f;\ct. 
As clocks are voluble with lead. 

' How poor, 
To say I'm sorry. Dear Leigh, dearest 

Leigh ! 
In those old days of Shropshire, — pardon 

me, — 
When he and you fought many a field 

of gold 
On what you should do, or you should 

not do. 
Make bread or verses, (it just came to 

that) 
I thought you'd one day draw a silken 

peace 
Through a golden ring. I thought so. 

Foolishly, 
The event proved, — for you went more 

opposite 
To each other, month by month, and 

year by year. 
Until this happened. God knows best, 

we say. 
But hoarsely. When the fever took him 

first. 
Just after I had writ to you in France, 
They tell me Lady Waldemar mixed 

drinks 
And counted grains, like any salaried 

nurse. 
Excepting that she wept too. Then 

Lord Howe, 



You're right about Lord Howe, I>ord 

Howe's a trump ; 
And yet, with such in his hand, a man 

like Leigh 
May lose, as /le does. There's an end to 

all,— 
Yes, even this letter, though this second 

sheet 
May find you doubtful. Write a word 

for Kate : 
She reads my letters always, like a wife. 
And if she sees her name, I'll see her 

smile 
And share the luck. So, bless you, 

friend of two ! 
I will not ask you what your feeling is 
At Florence with my pictures. I can hear 
Your heart a-flutter over the snow-hills : 
And, just to pace the Pitti with you 

once, 
I'd give a half-hour of to-morrow's walk 
With Kate . . I think so. Vincent Car- 

rington. 

The noon was hot ; the air scorched like 

the sun 
And was shut out. The closed persiani 

threw 
Their long-scored shadows on my villa- 
floor. 
And interlined the golden atmosphere 
Straight, still, — across the pictures on the 

wall 
The statuette on the console, (of young 

Love 
And Psyche made one marble by akiss) 
The low couch where I leaned, the table 

near. 
The vase of lilies Marian pulled last 

night 
(Each green leaf and each white leaf 

ruled in black 
As if for writing some new text of fate) 
And the open letter, rested on my knee. 
But there, the lines swerved, trembled, 

though I sate 
Untroubled . . plainly, . . reading it 

again 
And three times. Well, he's married ; 

that is clear. 
No wonder that he's married, nor much 

more 
That Vincent's therefore ' sorry.' Why, 

of course. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



The lady nursed him when he was not 

well. 
Mixed drinks, — unless nepenthe was the 

drink 
^Twas scarce worth telling. But a man 

in love 
Will see the whole sex in lils mistress' 

hood. 
The prettier for its lining of fair rose ; 
Although he catches back and says at 

last, 
* I m sorry.' Sorry. Lady Waldemar 
At prettiest, imder the said hood, pre- 
served 
From such a light as I could hold to her 

face 
To flare its ugly wrinkles out to shame. 
Is scarce a wife for Romney, as friends 

judge, 
Aurora Leigh, or Vincent Carrington, 
That's plain. And if he's ' conscious of 

my heart' . . 
It may be natural, though the phrase is 

strong ; 
(One's apt to use strong phrases, being 

in love) 
And even that stuff of ' fields of gold,' 

' gold rings,' 
And what he ' thought,' poor Vincent ! 

what he ' thought,' 
May never mean enough to ruffle me. 
— Why, this room stifles. Better bum 

than choke : 
Best have air. air, although it comes with 

fire. 
Throw open blinds and windows to the 

noon 
And take a blister on my brow instead 
Of this dead weight! best, perfectly be 

stimned 
By those insufferable cicale, sick 
And hoarse with rapture of the summer 

heat. 
That sing like poets, till their hearts 

break, . . sing 
Till men say, ' It's too tedious.' 

Books succeed. 
And lives fail. Do I feel it so, at last ? 
Kate loves a worn-out cloak for being 

like mine, 
While I live self-despised for being my- 
self, 
And yearn toward some one else, who 

yearns away 



From what he is, in his turn. Strain » 

step 
For ever, yet gain no step? Arc we 

such, 
We cannot, with our admirations even. 
Our tip-toe aspirations, touch a thing 
That's higher than wc 1 is all a dismal 

flat. 
And God alone above each, — as the sun 
O'er level lagunes, to make them shine 

and stink, — 
Laying stress upon us with immediate 

flame. 
While we respond with our miasmal fog. 
And call it mounting higher because we 

grow 
More highly fatal ? 

Tush, Aurora Leigh ! 
You wear your sackcloth looped in 

Caesar's way. 
And brag your failings as mankind's. Be 

still. 
There h what's higher, in this very 

world. 
Than you can live, or catch at. Stand 

aside. 
And look at others — instance little Kate ! 
She'll make a perfect wife for Carrington. 
She always has been looking round the 

earth 
For something good and green to alight 

upon 
And nestle into, with those soft-winged 

eyes 
Subsiding now beneath his manly hand 
'Twixt trembling lids of inexpressive 

joy : 
I will not scorn her, after all, too much. 
That so much she should love me. A 

wise man 
Can pluck a leaf, and find a lecture in't ; 
And L too, . . God has made me, — Fve 

a heart 
That's capable of worship, love and loss ; 
We say the same of Shakspeare's. I'll 

be meek, 
And learn to reverence, even this poor 

myself. 

The book, too — pass it. ' A good book,' 

says he, 
' And you a woman.' I had laughed at 

that. 
But long since. I'm a woman, — it is true ; 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Alas, and woe to us, when we feel it 

most ! 
Then, least care have we for the crowns 

and goals 
And compliments on writing our good 

books. 

The book has some truth in it, I believe : 
And truth outlives pain, as the soul does 

life. 
I know we talk our Phsedons to the end 
Through all the dismal faces that we 

make, 
O'er-wrinkled with dishonoring agony 
From decomposing drugs. I have writ- 
ten truth, 
And I a woman ; feebly, partially. 
Inaptly in presentation, Romney'll add, 
Because a woman. For tlie truth itself. 
That's neither man's nor woman's, but 

just God's ; 
None else has reason to be proud of 

truth : 
Himself will see it sifted, disenthralled. 
And kept upon the height and in the 

light. 
As far as and no farther than 'tis truth ; 
For, — now He has left off calling firma- 
ments 
And strata, flowers and creatures, very 

good. 
He says it still of truth, which is His 
own. 

Trutli, so far, in my book ; — the truth 

which draws 
Through all things upwards ; that a two- 
fold world 
Must go to a perfect cosmos. Natural 

things 
And spiritual, — who separates those two 
In art, in morals, or the social drift. 
Tears up the bond of nature and brings 

death. 
Paints futile pictures,writes unreal verse, 
Leads vulgar days, deals ignorantly 

with men. 
Is wrong, in short, at all points. We 

divide 
This apple of life, and cut It through 

the pips, — 
The perfect round which fitted Venus' 

hand 
Has perished as utterly as if we ate 



Both halves. Without the spiritual, ob- 
serve. 
The natural's impossible ; no form, 
No motion ! Without sensuous, spirit- 
ual 
Is inappreciable ; — no beauty or power : 
And in this twofold sphere the twofold 

man 
(And still the artist Is intensely a man) 
Holds firmly by the natural, to reach 
The spiritual beyond it, — fixes still 
The type with mortal vision, to pierce 

through. 
With eyes immortal, to the antetype 
Some call the ideal, — better called the 

real. 
And certain to be called so presently 
When things shall have their names. 

Look long enough 
On any peasant's face here, coarse and 

lined. 
You'll catch Antinous somewhere in that 

clay. 
As perfect featured as he yearns at 

Rome 
From marble pale with beauty ; then 

persist. 
And, if your apprehension's competent. 
You'll find some fairer angel at his back. 
As much exceeding him as he the boor. 
And pushing him with imperial disdain 
For ever out of sight. Ay, Carrington 
Is glad of such a creed : an artist must. 
Who paints a tree, a leaf, a common 

stone. 
With just his hand, and finds it sud- 
denly 
A-piece with and conterminous to his 

soul. 
Why else do these things move him, 

leaf or stone ? 
The bird's not moved, that pecks at a 

spring-shoot ; 
Nor yet the horse before a quarry 

a-graze : 
But man, the two-fold creature, appre- 
hends 
The two-fold manner, in and outwardly, 
And nothing in the world comes single 

to him, 
A mere itself, — cup, column, or candle- 
stick. 
All patterns of what shall be in the 
Mount ; 



^38 



AURORA LEIGH. 



The whole temporal show related roy- 
ally. 

And built up to eterne significance 

Through the open arms of God. ' There's 
nothing great 

Nor small,' has said a poet of our day, 

Whose voice will ring beyond the cur- 
few of eve 

And not be thrown out by the matin's 
bell: 

And truly, I reiterate, . . nothing's small ! 

No lily-muffled huni of a summer-bee. 

But finds some coupling with the spin- 
nmg stars ; 

No pebble at your foot, but i:)roves a 
sphere ; 

No chaffinch, but implies the cherubim : 

And, — ^glancing on my own thin, veined 
wrist, — 

In such a little tremour of the blood 

The whole strong clamour of a vehe- 
ment soul 

Doth utter itself distinct. Earth's 
crammed with heaven. 

And every common bush afire wltli 
God: 

But only he who sees, takes off his 
shoes. 

The rest sit round it and pluck blackber- 
ries. 

And daub their natural faces unaware 

More and more from the first similitude. 

Truth so far, in my book ! a truth which 

draws 
From all things upward. I, Aurora, 

still 
Have felt it hound me through the 

wastes of life 
As Jove did lo : and, until that Hand 
Shall overtake me wholly, and on my 

head 
Lay down its large unfluctuating peace. 
The feverish gad-fly pricks me up and 

down. 
It must be. Art's the witness of what is 
Behind this show. If this world's show 

were all. 
Then imitation would be all in Art ; 
There, Jove's hand gripes us! — for we 

stand here, we. 
If genuine artists, witnessing for God's 
Complete, consummate, undivided 

work : 



— That every natural flower which 

grows on earth. 
Implies a flower upon the spiritual side. 
Substantial, archetypal, all a-glow 
With blossoming causes, — not so far 

away. 
That we, whose spirit-sense is somewhat 

cleared. 
May catch at something of the bloom 

and breath, — 
Too vaguely apprehended, though in- 
deed 
Still apprehended, consciously or not. 
And still transferred to picture, music, 

verse. 
For thrilling audient and beholding souls 
By signs and touches which are known 

to souls. 
How known they know not, — why, they 

cannot find. 
So straight call out on genius, say, ' A 

man 
Produced this,' when much rather they 

should say, 
' 'Tis insight, and he saw this.' 

Thus is Art 
Self-magnified in magnifying a truth 
Which, fully recognised, would change 

the world 
And shift Its morals. If a man could 

feel, 
Not one day, in the artist's ecstasy. 
But every day, feast, fast, or working- 
day. 
The spiritual significance burn through 
The hieroglyphic of material shows. 
Henceforward he would paint the globe 

with wings, 
And reverence fish and fowl, the bull, 

the tree. 
And even his very body as a man, — 
Which now he counts so vile, that all 

the towns 
Make offal of their daughters for its use 
On summer-nights, when God is sad in 

heaven 
To think what goes on in his recreant 

world 
He made quite other ; wliile that moon 

He made 
To shine there, at the first love's cove- 
nant. 
Shines still, convictive as a marriage-ring 
Before adulterous eyes. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



139 



How sure it is. 
That, if we say a true word, instantly 
We feel 'tis God's, not ours, and pass it 

on . 
As bread at sacrament we taste and pass 
Nor handle for a moment, as indeed 
We dared to set up any claim to such ! 
And I — my poem ; — let my readers talk. 
I'm closer to it — I can speak, as well : 
I'll say with Romney, that the book i.i 

weak. 
The range uneven, the points of sight 

obscure, 
The music interrupted. 

Let us go. 
The end of woman (or of man, I thmk} 
Is not a Ijook, Alas, the best of books 
Is but a word in Art, which soon grows 

cramped. 
Stiff, dubious-statured with the weight 

of years. 
And drops an accent or digamma down 
Some cranny of unfathomable time, 
Beyond the critic's reaching. Art itself, 
We've called the higher life, must feci 

the soul 
Live past it. For more's felt than is 

perceived. 
And more's perceived than can be in-" 

terpreted, 
And Love strikes higher with his lam- 
bent flame 
Than Art can pile the fagots. 

Is it so ? 
When Jove's hand meets us with com- 
posing touch. 
And when at last we are hushed and 

satisfied. 
Then lo does not call it truth, but love ? 
Well, well ! my father was an English- 
man : 
Jvly mother's blood in me is not so strong 
That I should bear this stress of Tuscan 

noon 
And keep my wits. The town, there, 

seems to seethe 
In this jMedsean boil-pot of the sun. 
And all the patient hills are bubbling 

round 
As if a prick would leave them flat. 

Does heaven 
Keep far off", not to set us in a blaze ? 
Not so, — let drag your fiery fringes, 
heaven, 



And burn us up to quiet ! Ah, we know- 
Too much here, not to know what's best 

for peace ; 
We have too much light here, not to 

want more fire 
To purify and end us. We talk, talk. 
Conclude upon divine philosophies. 
And get the thanks of men for hopeful 

books ; 
V/hereat we take our own life up, and 

. . pshaw ! 
Unless we piece it with another's life, 
(A yard of silk to carry out our lawn) 
As well suppose my little handkerchief 
Would cover Samminiato, church an 

all. 
If out I threw it past the cypresses. 
As, in this ragged, narrow life cf mine. 
Contain my own conclusions. 

But at least 
We'll shut up the persiani and sit down. 
And when my head's done aching in the 

cool. 
Write just a word to Kate and Carring- 

ton. 
r*Iay joy be with them ! she has chosen 

well. 
And he not ill. 

I should be glad, I think. 
Except for Romney. Had he married 

Kate, 
I surely, surely, should be very glad. 
This Florence sits upon me easily. 
With native air and tongue. My graves 

are calm^ 
And do not too much hurt me. ]Ma- 

rian's good. 
Gentle and loving, — lets me hold the 

child. 
Or drags him up the hills to find me 

flowers 
And fill those vases ere I'm quite 

awake, — 
The grandiose red tulips, which grow 

wild. 
Or Dante's purple lilies, which he blew 
To a larger bubble with his prophet 

breath ; 
Or one of those tall flowering reeds that 

stand 
In Arno like a sheaf of sceptres left 
By some remote dynasty of dead gods. 
To suck the stream for ages and get 

green. 



AURORA LEIGH, 



And blossom wheresoe'r a hand divine 

Had warmed the place with ichor. 
Such I find 

At early morning laid across my bed. 

And woke up pelted with a childish 
laugh 

Which even Marian's low precipitous 
' hush ' 

Had vainly interposed to put away, — 

While 1, with shut eyes, smile and mo- 
tion for 

The dewy kiss that's very sure to come 

From mouth and cheeks, the whole 
child's face at once 

Dissolved on mine, — as if a nosegay 
burst 

Its string with the weight of roses over- 
blown. 

And dropt upon me. Surely 1 should be 
glad. 

The little creature almost loves me now. 

And calls my name . . ' Alola,' stripping 
off 

The rs like thorns, to make it smooth 
enough 

To take between his dainty, milk-fed 
lips. 

God love him ! I should certainly be glad. 

Except, God help me, that I'm sorrow- 
ful. 

Because of Romney. 

Romney, Romney ! Well, 

This grows absurd ! — too like a tune that 
runs 

I' the head, and forces all things in the 
world. 

Wind, rain, the creaking gnat or .stutter- 
ing fly. 

To sing itself and ve.x you ; — yet per- 
haps 

A paltry tune you never fairly liked. 

Some ' I'd be a butterfly,' or ' C'est 
I'amour : ' 

We're made so, — not such tyrants to 
ourselves 

But still we are slaves to nature. Some 
of us 

Are turned, too, overmuch like some 
poor verse 

With a trick of ritournelle ; the same 
thing goes 

And comes back ever. 

Vincent Carrlngtorf 

Is ' sorry,' and I'm sorry ; but he's strong 



To mount from sorrow to his hearer of 

love. 
And when he says at moments, ' Poor, 

poor Leigh, 
Who'll never call his own so true a heart. 
So fair a face even,' — he must quickly 

lose 
The pain of pity in the blush he makes 
By his very pitying eyes. The snow, 

for him, 
Has fallen in May, and finds the whole 

earth warm. 
And melts at the first touch of the green 

grass. 
But Romney, — he has chosen, after all. 
I think he had as excellent a sun 
To see by, as most others, and perhaps 
Has scarce seen really worse than some 

of us, 
When all's said. Let him pass. I'm 

not too much 
A woman, not to be a man for once 
And bury all my Dead like Alaric, 
Depositing the treasures of my soul 
In this drained water-course, then letting 

flow 
The river of life again with commerce- 
ships 
And pleasure -barges, full of silks and 

songs. 
Blow winds, and help us. 

Ah, we mock ourselves 
With talking of the winds 1 perhaps as 

much 
With other resolutions. How it weighs. 
This hot, sick air ! and how I covet here 
I'he Dead's provision on the river-couch 
With silver curtains drawn on tinkling 

rings ! 
Or else their rest in quiet crypts,-laid by 
From heat and noise:— from those cicale, 

say. 
And this more vexing heart-beat. 

So it is : 
We covet for the soul, the body's part. 
To die and rot. Even so, Aurora, ends 
Our aspiration, who bespoke our place 
So far in the east. The occidental flats 
Had fed us fatter, therefore ? we have 

climbed 
Where herbage ends? we want the 

beast's part now 
And tire of the angel's ? — Men define a 

man, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



141 



The creature who stands front- ward to 

the stars. 
The creature who looks inw:ird to him- 
self, 
The tool - Wright, laughing creature. 

'Tis enough : 
We'll say, instead, the inconsequent 

creature, man. 
For that's his speciality. What creature 

else 
Conceives the circle, and then walks the 

square ? 
Loves things proved bad, and leaves a 

thing proved good ? 
You think the bee makes honey half a 

year. 
To loathe the comb in winter and desire 
The little ant's food rather ? But a man — 
Note men ! — they are but women after 

all. 
As women are but Auroras ! — there arc 

men 
liorn tender, apt to pale at a trodden 

worm, 
Who paint for pastime, in their favorite 

dream. 
Spruce auto - vestments flowered with 

crocus-flames : 
There arc two, who believe in heaven, 

and fear : 
There are, who waste their souls in 

working out 
Life's probleuT on these sands betwixt 

two tides. 
Concluding, — ' Give us tlie oyster's part, 

in death.' 

Alas, long - suffering and most patient 

God, 
Thou need'st be surelier God to bear 

with us 
Than even to have made us ! thou aspire, 

aspire 
From henceforth for me ! thou who liast 

thyself 
FniLued this fleshhood, knowing how 

as a soaked 
And sucking vesture it can drag us 

down 
And choke us in the melancholy Deep, 
Sustain me, that with thee I walk these 

waves. 
Resisting ! — breathe me upwar ', thou in 

rae 



Aspiring, who art the way, the truth, 
the life, — 

That no truth henceforth seem indiffer- 
ent. 

No way to truth laborious, and no life. 

Not even this life I live, intolerable ! 

The days went by. I took up the old 

days 
With all their Tuscan pleasures worn 

anfl spoiled 
Like some Ibst book we dropt in the long 

grass 
On such a happy summer-afternoon 
When last wc read it with a loving 

friend. 
And find in autumn when the friend is 

gone. 
The grass cut short, the weather 

changed, too late. 
And stare at, as at something wonderful 
J'or sorrow, — thinking how two hands 

before 
Had held up what is left to only one. 
And how we smiled when such a vehe- 
ment nail 
Impressed the tiny dint here which jare- 

sents 
This verse in fire for ever. Tenderly 
And mournfully 1 lived. I knew the 

birds 
And insects, — which looked fathered. 

by the flowers 
And emulous of their hues : I recog- 
nized 
The moths, with the great overpoise of 

wings 
Which makes a mystery of them how at 

all 
They can stop flying : butterflies, that 

bear 
Upon their blue wings such red embers 

round. 
They seem to scorch the blue air into 

holes 
Each flight they take : and fire-flies 

that suspire 
Li short soft lapses of transported flame. 
Across the tingling Dark, while over- 
head 
The constant and inviolable stars 
Outburn those lights-of-love : melodious 

owls, 
(If music had but one note and was sad. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



'Twould sound just so) and all the silent 

swirl 
Of bats that seem to follow in the air 
Some 'grand circumference of a shadowy 

dome 
To which we are blind : and then the 

nightingales, 
"Which pluck our heart across a garden- 
wall 
(When walking in the town) and carry 

it » 

So lugh into the bowery almond-trees. 
We tremble and are afraid, and feel as if 
The golden flood of moonlight unaware 
Dissolved the pillars of the steady earth 
And made it less substantial. And I 

knew 
The harmless opal snakes, and large 

mouthed frogs 
(Those noisy vaunters of their shallow 

streams) 
And lizards, the green lightnings of the 

wall. 
Which, if you s:t down quiet nor sigh 

loud. 
Will flatter you and take you for a 

stone, 
And flash familiarly about your feet 
With such prodigious eyes in such small 

heads ! — 
I knew them, though they had somewhat 

dwindled from 
My childish imagery, — and kept in 

mind 
How last I sat among them equally. 
In fellowship and mateship, as a child 
Feels equal still toward insect, beast, 

and bird, 
Before the Adam in him has foregone 
All privilege of Eden, — making friends 
And talk, with such a bird or such a goat. 
And buying many a two-inch-wide rush- 
cage 
To let out the caged cricket on a tree. 
Saying, ' Oh, my dear grillino, were 

you cramped ? 
And are you happy with the ilex-leaves ? 
And do you love me who have let you 

go? 
Say^e?j in singing, and I'll understand.' 
But now the creatures all seemed farther 

off, 
No longer mine, nor like me ; only there. 



A gulph between us. I could yearn in- 
deed. 

Like other rich men, for a drop of dew 

'I'o cool this heat, — a drop of the early 
dew. 

The irrecoverable child innocence 

(Before the heart took fire and withered 
life) 

When childhood nil^ht pa.r equally 
with birds ; 

But now . . the birds were grown too 
proud for us! 

Alas, the very sun forbids the dew. 

And I, I had come back to an empty 

nest. 
Which every bird's too wise for. How 

I heard 
My father's step on that deserted ground. 
His voice along that silence, as he told 
The names of bird and insect, tree and 

flower. 
And all the presentations of the stars 
Across Valdarno, interposing still 
' My child,' ' my child.' When fathers 

say ' my child,' 
'Tis easier to conceive the universe, 
And life's transitions down the steps of 

law. 
I rode once to the little mountain-house 
As fast as if to find my father there. 
But when in sight oft, within fifty yards, 
1 dropped my horse's bridle on his neck 
And paused upon his flank. The house's 

front 
Was cased with lingots of ripe Indian 

corn 
In tesselated order and device 
Of golden patterns : not a stone of wall 
Uncovered, — not an inch of room to 

grow 
A vine-leaf. The old porch liad disa;)- 

peared ; 
And right in the open doorway, sate a 

girl 
At plaiting straws, — her bkac'ic hair 

strained away 
To a scarlet kerchief caught beneath her 

chin 
In Tuscan fashion, — her full ebon eyes. 
Which looked too heavy to be lifted soj 
Still dropt and lifted toward the mul- 
berry-tree 



AURORA LEIGH. 



On whicli the lads were busy with their 

staves 
In shout and laughter, stripping every 

bough 
As bare as winter, of those summer 

leaves 
My father had not changed for all the 

silk 
In which the ugly silkworms hide them- 
selves. 
Enough. My horse recoiled before my 

lieart. 
I turned the rein abruptly. Bade wc 

went as fast, to Florence. 

That was trial enough 
Of graves. I would not visit, if I could. 
My father's, or my mother's any more. 
To see if stone-cutter or lichen beat 
So early in the race, or throw my flowers. 
Which could not out-smell heaven or 

sweeten earth. 
They live too far above, that I should 

look 
So far below to find them : let mc think 
That rather they are visiting my grave. 
This life here, (undeveloped yet to life) 
And that they drop upon nic, now and 

then, 
For token or for solace, some small weed 
Least odorous of the growths of paradise, 
'i o spare such pungent scents as kill with 

joy. 
My old Assunta, too, was dead, was 

dead— 
() land of all men's past ! for me alone, 
It would not mix its tenses. I was past, 
It seemed, like others, — only not in 

heaven 
And, many a Tuscan eve I wandered 

down 
The cypress alley like a restless ghost 
That tries its feeble ineffectual breath 
Upon its own charred funeral-brands 

put out 
Too soon, — where black and stiff stood 

up the trees 
Against the broad vermilion of the 

skies. 
Such skies ! — all clouds abolished ia a 

sweep 
Of God's skirt, with a dazzle to ghosts 

and men, 
As down I went, saluting on the bridge 



The hem of such before 'twas caught 

away 
Beyond the peaks of Lucca. Under- 
neath, 
The river just escaping from the weight 
Of that intolerable glory, ran 
In acquiescent shadow murmurously : 
While up beside it, streamed the festa- 

folk 
With fellow-murmurs from their feet 

and fans. 
And issiiiio and ino and sweet poise 
Of vowels in their pleasant scandalous 

talk ; 
Returning from the grand-duke's dairy- 
farm 
Before the trees grew dangerous at 

eight, 
(For, ' trust no tree by moonlight,' 

Tuscans say) 
To eat their ice at Donay's tenderlj-, — 
Each lovely lady close to a cavalier 
Who holds her dear fan while she feeds 

her smile 
On meditative spoonfuls of vanille. 
And listens to his hot-breathed vows of 

love. 
Enough to thaw her cream and scorch 

his beard. 
'Twas little matter. I could pass them by 
Indifferently, not fearing to be known. 
No danger of being wrecked upon a 

friend, 
And forced to take an iceberg for an isle ! 
The very English, here, must wait and 

learn 
To hang the cobweb of their gossip out 
And catch a fly. I'm happy. It's sub- 
lime, 
This perfect solitude of foreign lands ! 
To be, as if you had not been till then. 
And were then, simply what you choose 

to be ; 
To spring up, not be brought forth from 

the ground 
Like gra.sshoppers at Athens, and skip 

thrice 
Before a woman makes a pounce on you 
And plants you in her hair ! — possess, 

yourself, 
A new world all alive with creatures 

new. 
New sun, new moon, new flowers, new 

people — ah. 



144 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And be possessed ^^y none of them ! no 
right 

In one, to call your name, enquire your 
where. 

Or what you think of Mister Some-one's 
book, 

Or Mister Other's marriage or decease. 

Or how's the headache which you liad 
last week, 

Or why you look so pale still, since it's 
gone ? 

— Such most surprising riddance of one's 
life 

Comes next one's death ; 'tis disembod- 
iment 

Without the pang. I marvel, people 
choose 

To stand stock-still like fakirs, till the 
moss 

Grows on them and they cry out, self- 
admired, 

' How verdant and how virtuous !' Well, 
I'm glad 

Or should be, if grown foreign to my- 
self 

As surely as to others. 

Musing so, 

I walked the narrow unrecognising 
streets. 

Where many a palace-front peers gloom- 

^ly . . 

Through stony vizors iron-barred, (pre- 
pared 

Alike, should foe or lover pass that way. 

For guest or victim) and came wander- 
ing out 

Upon the churches with mild open doors 

And plaintive wail of vespers, where a 
a few. 

Those chiefly women, sprinkled round 
in blots 

Upon the dasky pavement, knelt and 
prayed 

Toward the altar's silver glory. Oft a ray 

(I liked to sit and watch would tremble 
out. 

Just touch some face more lifted, more 
in need. 

Of course a woman's — while I dreamed 
a tale 

To fit its fortunes. There was one who 
looked 

A-'if the earth had suddenly grown too 
lartie 



For such a little humpbacked thing as 

she ; 
The pitiful black kerchief round her 

neck 
Sole proof she had had a mother. One, 

again. 
Looked sick for love, — seemed praying 

some soft saint 
To put more virtue in the new fine scarf 
She spent a fortnight's meals on, yester- 
day, 
That cruel Gigi might return his eyes 
From Giuliana. There was one, so old. 
So old, to kneel grew easier than to 

stand, — 
Sosolitary, she accepts at last 
Our Lady for her gossip, and frets on 
Against the sinful world which goes its 

rounds 
In marrying and being married, just the 

same 
As when 'twas almost good and had the 

right, 
(Her Gian alive, and she herself eigh- 
teen). 
And yet, now even, if Madonna willed. 
She'd win a tern in Thursday's lottery 
' And better all things. Did she dream 

for nought. 
That, boiling cabbage for the fast-day's 

soup. 
It smelt like blessed entrails? such a 

dream 
For nought ! would sweetest Mary cheat 

her so. 
And lose that certain candle, straight 

and white 
As any fair grand-duchess in her teens. 
Which otherwise should flare here in a 

week ? 
Benigna sis, thou beauteous Queen of 
heaven !' 

I sate there musing and imagining 
Such utterance from such faces : poor 

blind souls 
That writhed toward heaven along the 

devil's trail, — 
Who knows, I thought, but He may 

stretch his hand 
And pick them up? 'tis written in the 

Book 
He heareth the young ravens when they 

cry; 



AURORA LEIGH. 



145 



And yet they cry for carrion. — O my 

God, 
And we, who make excuses for the rest. 
We do it in our measure. Then I knelt. 
And dropped my head upon the pave- 
ment too. 
And prayed, since I was fooUsh in desire 
Like other creatures, craving oflfal-food. 
That He would stop his ears to what I 

said. 
And only listen to the run and beat 
Of this poor, passionate, helpless blood — 

And then 
I lay, and spoke not. But He heard in 

heaven. 
So many Tuscan evenings passed the 

same. 
I could not lose a sunset on the bridge. 
And would not miss a vigil in the church. 
And liked to mingle with the out-door 

crowd 
So strange and gay and ignorant of my 

face. 
For men you know not, are as good as 

trees. 
And only once, at the Santissima, 
I almost chanced upon a man I knew. 
Sir Blaise Delorme. He saw me cer- 
tainly. 
And somewhat hurried, as he crossed 

himself. 
The smoothness of the action, — then half 

bowed. 
But only half, and merely to mj^ shade, 
I slipped so quick behind the porphyry 

plinth 
And left him dubious if 'twas really I, 
Or perad venture Satan's usual trick 
To keep a mounting saint uncanonised. 
But he was safe for that time, and I too ; 
The argent angels in the altar-flare 
Absorbed his soul next moment. The 

good man ! 
In Engl.Tud we were scarce acquaint- 
ances. 
That here in Florence he should keep 

my thought 
Beyond the image on his eye, which 

came 
And went : and yet his thought dis- 
turbed my life : 
For, after that, I oftener sat at home 
On evenings, watching how they fined 
themselves 



With gradual conscience to a perfect 

night. 
Until the moon, diminished to a curve. 
Lay out there like a sickle for His hand 
Who Cometh down at last to reap the 

earth. 
At such times, ended seemed my trade 

of verse ; 
I feared to jingle bells upon my robe 
Before the four-faced silent cherubim,: 
With God so near me, could I sing of 

God? 
I did not write, nor read, nor even 

think. 
But sate absorbed amid the quickening 

gloom.s. 
Most like some passive broken lump of 

salt 
Dropt in by chance to a bowl of oeno- 

mel. 
To spoil the drink a little and lose itself. 
Dissolving slowly, slowly, until lost. 



EIGHTH BOOK. 

One eve it happened when I sate alone. 
Alone upon the terrace of my tower, 
A book upon my knees to counterfeit 
The reading that I never read at all. 
While Marian, in the garden down be- 
low. 
Knelt by the fountain I could just hear 

thrill 
The drowsy silence of the exhausted 

day. 
And peeled a new fig from that purple 

heap 
In the grass beside her, — turning out the 

red 
To feed her eager child, who sucked at 

it 
With vehement lips across a gap of air 
As he stood opposite, face and curls 

a-flame 
With that last sun-ray, crying, ' give me. 

And stamping with Imperious baby- 
feet, 

(We're all born princes) — something 
startled me, — 

The laugh of sad and innocent souls, 
that breaks 



146 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Abruptly, as if frightened at itself ; 
'Twas Marian laughed. 1 saw her 

glance above 
In sudden shame that I should hear her 

laugh. 
And straightway dropped my eyes upon 

my book. 
And knew, the first time, 'twas Bocca- 

cio's tale. 
The Falcon's, — of the lover who for 

love 
Destroyed the best that loved him. 

Some of us 
Do it still, and then we sit and laugh no 

more. 
L,dLUgh you, sweet Marian ! you've the 

right to laugh, 
Since God himself is for you, and a 

child ! 
For me there's somewhat less, — and so I 

sigh. 

The heavens were making room to hold 

the night. 
The seven-fold heavens unfolding all 

their gates 
To let the stars out slowly (prophesied 
In close-approaching advent, not dis- 
cerned). 
While still the cue-owls from the 

cypresses 
Of the poggio called and counted every 

pulse 
Of the skyey palpitation. Gradually 
The purple and transparent shadows 

slow 
Had filled up the whole valley to the 

brim. 
And flooded all the city, which you 

saw 
As some drowned city in some enchanted 

sea. 
Cut off from nature, — drawing you who 

gaze. 
With passionate desire, to leap and 

plunge 
And find a sea-king with a voice of 

waves. 
And treacherous soft eyes, and slippery 

locks 
You cannot kiss but you shall bring 

away 
Their salt upon your lips. The duomo- 

bell 



Strikes ten, as if it struck ten fathoms 

down. 
So deep ; and fifty churches answer it 
I'he same with twenty various instances. 
Some gaslights tremble along squares 

and streets ; 
The Pitti's palace-front is drawn in fire : 
And, past the quays, Maria Novella 

Place, 
In which the mystic obelisks stand up 
Triangular, pyramidal, each based 
Upon its four-square brazen tortoises. 
To guard that fair church, Buonarotti's 

Bride, 
That stares out from her large blind 

dial-eyes. 
Her quadrant and armillary dials, black 
With rhythms of many suns and moons. 

in vain 
Enquiry for so rich a soul as his. 
Methinks I have plunged, I see it all so 

clear . . . 
And, oh my heart , . . the sea-king ! 

In my ears 
The sound of waters. There he stood, 
my king ! 

I felt him, rather than beheld him. Up 

I rose, as if he were my king indeed. 

And then sate down, in trouble at my- 
self. 

And struggling for my woman's empery. 

Tis pitiful ; but women are so made : 

We'll die for you perhaps, — 'tis proba- 
ble ; 

But we'll not spare you an inch of our 
full height : 

We'll have our whole just stature, — five 
feet four, 

Though laid out in our coffins : pitiful ! 

— 'You, Romney ! Lady Waldemar 

is here ? ' 

He answered in a voice which was not 

his, 
' I have her letter ; you shall read it 

soon. 
But first, I must be heard a little, I, 
Who have waited long and travelled far 

for that. 
Although you thought to have shut a 

tedious book 
And farewell. Ah, you dog-eared such 

a page. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And here you find me.' 

Did he touch my hand. 

Or but my sleeve ? I trembled, hand 
and foot, — 

He must have touched me. — ' Will you 
sit?' I asked. 

And motioned to a chair ; but down he 
sate, 

A little slowly, as a man in doubt, 

Upon the couch beside me, — couch and 
chair 

Being wheeled upon the terrace. 

' You are come, 

My cousin Romney? — this is wonder- 
ful. 

But all is wonder on such summer- 
nights ; 

And nothing should surprise us any 
more, 

Who see that miracle of stars. Behold.' 

I signed above, where all the stars were 

out. 
As if an urgent heat had started there 
A secret writing from a sombre page, 
A blank last moment, crowded suddenly 
With hurrying splendors. 

' Then you do not know'-^ 
He murmured. 

' Yes, I know,' I said, ' I know. 
I had the news from Vincent Carring- 

ton. 
And yet I did not think you'd leave the 

work 
In England, for so much even, — though 

of course 
You'll make a work-day of your holiday. 
And turn it to our Tuscan people's use, — 
Who much need helping since the Aus- 
trian boar 
(So bold to cross the Alp to Lombardy 
And dash his brute front unabashed 

against 
The steep snow-bosses of that shield of 

God 
Who soon shall rise in wrath and shake 

it clear,) 
Came hither also, — raking up our grape 
And olive-gardens with his tyrannous 

tusk, 
And rolling on our maize with all his 

swine.' 
' You had the news from Vincent Car- 

rington,' 



He echoed, — picking up the phrase be- 
yond. 

As if he knew the rest was merely talk 

To fill a gap and keep out a strong wind, 

' You had, then, Vmcent's personal 
news ?' 

' His own,' 

I answered. ' All that ruined world of 
yours 

Seems crumbling into marriage. Car- 
rington 

Has chosen wisely.' 

' V)o you take it so?' 

He cried, ' and is it possible at last' . . 

He paused there, — and then, inward to 
himself, 

' Too much at last, too late ! — yet cer- 
tainly' . . 

(And there his voice swayed as an Al- 
pine plank 

That feels a passionate torrent under- 
neath) 

' The knowledge, had I known it first or 
last. 

Had never changed the actual case for 
me. 

And best for hc7' at this time.' 

Nay, 1 thought. 

He loves Kate Ward, it seems, now, like 
a man. 

Because he has married Lady Waldc- 
mar. 

Ah, Vincent's letter said how Leigh was 
moved 

To hear that Vincent was betrothed to 
Kate. 

With what cracked pitchers go we to 
deep wells 

In this world ! Then I spoke, — ' I did 
not think. 

My cousin, you had ever known Kate 
Ward.' 

' In fact I never knew her. 'Tis enough 
That Vincent did, and therefore chose 

his wife 
For other reasons than those topaz eyes 
I've heard of. Not to undervalue them. 
For all that. One takes up the world 

with eyes. 

— Including Romney Leigh, I thought 

again. 
Albeit he knows them only by repute. 



I4S 



AURORA LEIGH. 



How vile must all men be, since he's a 
man. 

His deep pathetic voice, as if he guessed 
I did not surely love him, took the word; 
* You never got a letter from Lord Howe 
A month back, dear Aurora V 

'None,' I said. 

' I felt it so,' he replied : ' Yet, strange ! 
Sir Blaise Delorme has passed through 

Florence ? 

'Ay, 
By chance I saw hiiu in Our Lady's 

church, 
(I saw him, mark you, but he saw not 

me) 
Clean-washed in holy water froni the 

count 
Of things terrestrial, — letters and t!ie 

rest ; 
He had crossed us out together with Li; 

sins. 
Ay, strange ; but only strange that good 

Lord Howe 
Preferred him to the post because of 

pauls. 
For me I'm sworn never to trust a man — 
At least with letters.' 

There were facts to tell. 

To smooth with eye and accent. Howe 
supposed . . 

Well, well, no matter ! there was du- 
bious need ; 

Y'ou heard the news from Vincent Car- 
rington. 

And yet perhaps you had been startled 
less 

To see me, dear Aurora, if you had 
read 

That letter.' 

— Now he sets me down as vexed. 

I think I've draped myself in woman's 
pride 

To a perfect purpose. Oh, I'm vexed, 
it seems ! 

My friend Lord Howe deputes his friend 
Sir Blaise 

I'o break as softly as a sparrow's egg 

That lets a bird out tenderly, the news 

Of Romney's marriage to a certain saint; 

To smooth with eye and accent, — indi- 
cate 



His possible presence. Excellently well 
You've played your part, my Lady 

Waldemar,— • 
As I've played mine. 

' Dear Romney,' I began, 
' You did not use, of old, to be so like 
A Greek king coming from a taken Troy, 
Twas needful that precursors spread 

your path 
With three-piled carpets, to receive your 

foot 
And dull the sound oft. For myself, be 

sure. 
Although it frankly grinds the gravel 

here, 
I still can bear it. Yet I'm sorry too 
To lose this famous letter, which Sir 

Blaise 
Has twisted to a lighter absently 
To fire some holy taper : dear Lord 

Howe 
Writes letters good for all things but to 

lose ; 
And many a flower of London gossipry 
Has dropt wherever such a stem broke 

off. 
Of course I feel that, lonely among my 

vines. 
Where nothing's talked of, save the 

blight again.- 
And no more Chianti ! Still the letter's 

use 

As preparation Did I start indeed ? 

Last night I started at a cockchafer. 
And shook a half-hour after. Have you 

learnt 
No more of woman, 'spite of privilege. 
Than still to take account too seriously 
Of such weak flutterings ? Why, we 

like it, sir, 
Wc get our powers and our effects that 

way 
The trees stand stiff and still at time of 

frost, 
If no wind tears them ; but, let summer 

come. 
When trees are happy, — and a breath 

avails 
To set them trembling through a million 

leaves \\ 

In luxury of emotion. Something less 
It takes to move a woman : let her start 
And shake at pleasure, — nor conclude at 

yours, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



The winter's bitter, — ^but the summer's 
green.' 

He answered, ' Be the summer ever 

green 
With you, Aurora ! — though you sweep 

your sex 
With somewhat bitter gusts from where 

you hve 
Above them, whirling downward from 

your jieights 
Your very own pme-cones, in a grand 

disdain 
Of the lowland burrs with which you 

scatter them. 
So high and cold to others and yourself, 
A little less to Romney were unjust. 
And thus, I would not have you. Let 

it pass : 
I feel content so. You can bear indeed 
My sudden step beside you : but for me, 
'Twould move me sore to hear your 

softened voice, — 
Aurora's voice, — if softened unaware 
In pity of what I am.' 

Ah friend, I thought. 
As husband of the Lady Waldemar 
You're granted very sorely pitiable ! 
And yet Aurora Leigh must guard her 

voice 
From softening in the pity of your case. 
As if from lie or license. Certainly 
We'll soak up all the slush and soil of life 
AVith softened voices, ere we come to 

you. 

At which I interrupted my own thought 
And spoke out calmly. ' Let us ponder, 

friend, 
Whate'er our state we must have made 

it first ; 
And though the thing displease us, ay, 

perhaps 
Displease us warrantably, never doubt 
That other states, though possible once, 

and then 
Rejected by the instinct of our lives. 
If then adopted had displeased us more 
Than this in which the choice, the will, 

the love. 
Has stamped the honour of a patent act 
From henceforth. What we choose may 

not be good ; 



But, that we choose it, proves it good for 

us 
Potentially, fantastically, now 
Or last year, rather than a thing we saw, 
And saw no need for choosing. Moths 

will burn 
Their wings, — which proves that light is 

good for moths. 
Or else they had flown not where they 

agonise.' 

' Ay, light is good,' he echoed, and there 
paused. 

And then abruptly, . . ' Marian. Ma- 
rian's well V 

I bowed my head but found no word. 

'Twas hard 
To spealc ot her to Lady Waldemar's 
New husband. How much did he know, 

at last ? 
How much? how little ? He would 

take no sign. 
But straight repeated,—' Marian. Is she 

welfr 

' She's well,' I answered. 

She was there in sight 
An hour back, but the night had drawn 

her home ; 
Where still I heard her in an upper 

room. 
Her low voice singing to the chdd in 

bed. 
Who, restless with the summer-heat and 

play 
And slumber snatched at noon, was long 

sometimes 
At falling off, and took a score of songs 
And mother-hushes ere she saw him 

sound. 

' She's well,' I answered. 

' Here ?' he asked. 

•Yes. here.' 

I le stopped and sighed. ' That shall be 

presently. 
But now this must be. I have words to 

say. 
And would be alone to say them, I with 

you, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And no third troubling.' 

' Speak then,' I returned, 
'She will not vex you.' 

At which, suddenly 
He turned his face upon me with its 

smile. 
As if to crush me. ' I have read your 

book, 
Aurora.' 

' You have read it,' I replied, 
' And I have writ it, — we have done 

with it. 
And now the rest V 

' The rest is like the first. 
He answered, — ' for the book is in my 

heart, 
Lives in me, wakes in me, and dreams 

in me : 
My daily bread tastes of it, — and my 

wine 
Which has no smack of it, I pour it out ; 
It seems unnatural drinking.' 

Bitterly 
I took the word up ; ' Never waste your 

wine. 
The book lived in me ere it lived in you ; 
1 know it closer than another does. 
And how it's toolish, feeble, and afraid. 
And all unworthy so much compliment. 
Beseech you, keep your wine, — and, 

when you drink. 
Still wish some happier fortune to a 

friend. 
Than even to have written a far better 

book.* 

He answered gently, 'That is conse- 
quent : 
The poet looks beyond the book lie has 

made, 
Or else he had not made it. If a man 
Could make a man, he'd henceforth be 

a god 
In feeling what a little thing is man : 
It is not my case. And this special book, 
I did not make it, to make light of it : 
It stands above my knowledge, draws 

me up ; 
'Tis high to me. It may be that the book 
Is not so high, but I so low, instead ; 
Still high to me. I mean no compliment: 
I will not say there are not, young or old, 
Male writers, ay or female, — let it pass, 



Who'll write us richer and completer 
books. 

A man may love a woman perfectly. 

And yet by no means ignorantly main- 
lain 

A thousand women have not larger eyes: 

Enough that she alone has looked at him 

With eyes that, large or small, have won 
his soul. 

And so, this book, Aurora, — so, your 
book.' 

' Alas,' I answered, ' Is It so, indeed V 

And then was silent. 

' Is it so, indeed,' 

He echoed, ' i\\Vii alas \sa.\\. your word V 

I said, — ' I'm thinking of a far-off June, 

When you and I, upon my birthday 
once, 

Discoursed of life and art, with both 
untried. 

I'm thinking, Romney, how 'twas morn- 
ing then. 

And now 'tis night.' 

'And now,' he said, 'tis night.' 

' I'm thinking,' I resumed, ' 'tis some- 
what sad 

'i'hat if 1 had known, that morning i;i 
the dew. 

My cousin Romney would have said 
such words 

On such a night at close of many years. 

In speaking of a future book of mine, 

It would have pleased me better as a 
hope, 

Than as an actual grace it can at all. 

'i'hat's sad, I'm thinking.' 

' Ay,' he said, ''tis night.' 

' And there,' I addeil lightly, ' are the 

stars ! 
And here we'll talk of stars and not cf 

books.' 

' You have the stars,' he murmured, — 

'it is well : 
Be like them ! shine, Aurora, on my 

dark 
Though high and cold and only like a 

star, 
And for this short night only, — you, 

who keep 



AURORA LEIGH. 



15' 



The same Aurora of the bright June 
day 

That withered up the flowers before my 
face. 

And turned rae from the garden ever- 
more 

Because I was not worthy. Oh, de- 
served. 

Deserved ! That I, who verily had not 
learnt 

God's lesson half, attaining as a dunce 

To obliterate good works with fractious 
thumbs 

And cheat myself of the context, — / 
should push 

Aside, with male ferocious impudence. 

The world's Aurora, who had conned 
her part 

On the other side the leaf! Ignore her 
so. 

Because she was a woman and a queen, 

And had no beard to bristle through her 
song. 

My teacher, who has taught me with a 
book, 

My Miriam, whose sweet mouth, when 
nearly drowned 

I still heard singing ou the shore ! De- 
served, 

That here I should look up unto the 
stars 

And miss the glory ' . . 

' Can I understand ? ' 
I broke in. ' You speak wildly, Rom- 

ney Leigh, 
Or I hear wildly. In that morning- 
time 
We recollect, the rose;^ were too red. 
The trees too green, reproach too nat- 
ural 
If one should see not what the other 

saw : 
And now, it's night, remember ; we 

have shades 
In place of colours ; wc arc now grown 

cold, 
And old, my cousin Romney. Pardon 

me, — 
I'm very happy that you like my book. 
And very sorry that 1 quoted back ^ 
A ten years' birthday ; 'twas so mad a 

thing 
In any woman, I scarce marvel much 



You took it for a venturous piece of 

spite. 
Provoking such excuses as indeed 
I cannot call you slack in.' 

' Understand,' 
He answered sadly, ' something, if but 

so. 
This night is softer than an English day. 
And men may well come hither when 

they're sick. 
To draw in easier breath from larger air. 
'Tis thus with me ; I've come to you, — 

to you, 
My Italy of women, just to breathe 
My soul out once before you, ere I go. 
As humble as God makes me at the last 
(I thank Him) quite out of the way of 

men 
And yours, Aurora, — like a punished 

child. 
His cheeks all blurred with tears and 

naughtiness. 
To silence in a corner. I am come 
To .speak, beloved ' . . 

' Wisely, cousin Leigh, 
And worthily of us both !' 

' Yes, worthily ; 
For this time I must speak out and con- 
fess 
That I, so truculent in assumption once. 
So absolute in dogma, proud in aim. 
And fierce in expectation, — I, who felt 
The whole world tugging at my skirts 

for help. 
As if no other man than I, could pull, 
Nor woman, but 1 led her by the hand. 
Nor cloth hold, but I had it in my coat. 
Do know myself to-night for what I was 
On that June-day, Aurdra. Poor bright 

day. 
Which meant the best . . a woman and 

a rose. 
And which I .smote upon the clieek with 

words 
Until it turned and rent me ! Young 

you were. 
That birthday, poet, but you talked the 

right : 
While 1, . . I built up follies like a wall 
To intercept the sunshine and your face. 
Your face ! that's worse.' 

Speak wisely, cousin Leigh.' 
' Yes, wisely, dear Aurora, though too 

late : 



i5a 



AURORA LEIGH. 



But then, not wisely. I was heavy then. 
And stupid, and distracted with the cries 
Of tortured prisoners in the polished 

brass 
Of that Phalarian bull, society. 
Which seems to bellow bravely like ten 

bulls, 
But, if you listen, moans and cries in- 
stead 
Despairingly, like victims tossed and 

gored 
And trampled by their hoofs. I heard 

the cries 
Too close : I could not hear the angels 

lift 
A fold of rustling air. nor what they said 
To help my pity. I beheld the world 
As one great famishing carnivorous 

mouth, — 
A huge, deserted, callow, blind, bird 

Thing, 
With piteous open beak that hurt my 

heart. 
Till down upon the filthy ground I drop- 
ped. 
And tore the violets up to get the worms. 
Worms, worms, was all my cry : an 

open mouth, 
A gross want, bread to fill it to the lips, 
No more ! That poor men narrowed 

their demands 
To such an end. was virtue, I supposed. 
Adjudicating that to see it so 
Was reason. Oh, I did not push the case 
Up higher, and ponder how it answers 

when 
The rich take up the same cry for them- 
selves. 
Professing equally, — ' an open mouth 
A gross need, food lo fill us, and no 

more.' 
Why that's so far from virtue, only vice 
Can find excuse for't ! That makes 

libertines : 
And slurs our cruel streets fror.i end to 

end 
With eighty thousand women in one 

smile. 
Who only smile at night beneath the 

gas : 
The body's satisfaction and no more. 
Is used for argument against the soul's. 
Here too ; the want, here too, implies 

the right. 



— How dark I stood that morning in the 

sun. 
My best Aurora, though I saw your eyes. 
When first you told me . . oh, I recollect 
The sounds, and how you lifted your 

small hand. 
And how your white dress and your 

burnished curls 
Went greatening round you in the still 

blue air. 
As if an inspiration from within 
Had blowa them all out when you spoke 

the words. 
Even these, — ' You will not compass 

your poor ends 
' Of barley -feeding and material ease, 
' Without the poet's individualism 
* To work your universal. It takes a soul, 
' To move a body, — it takes a high- 

souled man, 
' To move the masses . . even to a clean- 
er style : 
' It takes the ideal, to blow an inch in- 
side 
' The dust of the actual : and yor.r 

Fouriers failed. 
' Because not poets enough to Tinder- 
stand 
' That life develops from within.' I say 
Your words, — I could say other words of 

yours ; 
For none of all your words will let me 

. S° : 
Like sweet verbena whlch,being brushed 

agauist. 

Will hold us three hours after by the 
smell 

In spite of long walks upon windy hills. 

But these words dealt in sharper per- 
fume, — these 

Were ever on me, stinging through my 
dreams. 

And saying themselves for ever o'er my 
acts 

Like some unhappy verdict. That I 
failed. 

Is certain. Style or no style, to con- 
trive 

The swine's propulsion toward the pre- 
cipice, 
proved easy and plain. I subtly organ- 
ised 

And ordered, built tha cards up high 
and liigher. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



153 



fill, some one breathing, all fell flat 

again ! 
In setting right society's wide wrong, 
Mere life 's so fatal ! So I failed indeed 
Once, twice, and oftener, — hearing 

through the rents 
Of ob-itinate purpose, still those words of 

yours. 
* You ivill 7iot compass your poor ends, 

not you !' 
But harder than you said them ; every 

time 
Still farther from your voice, until they 

came 
To overcrow me with triumphant scorn 
Which vexed me to resistance. Set down 

this 
For condemnation, — I was guilty here : 
I stood upon my deed and fought my 

doubt. 
As men will, — for I doubted, — till at last 
My deed gave way beneath me suddenly 
And lett me what I am. The curtain 

dropped. 
My part quite ended, all the footlights 

quenched. 
My own soul hissing at me through the 

dark, 
I, ready for confession, — T was wrong, 
I've sorely failed, I've slipped the ends 

of life, 
I yield, you have conquered.' 

' Stay,' I answered him ; 
' I've something for your hearing, also. I 
Have failed too.' 

' You !' he said, ' you're very great ; 
The sadness of your greatness fits you 

well : 
As if the plume upon a hero's casque 
Should nod a shadow upon his victor 

face.' 
I took him up austerely, — ' Von have 

read 
My book, but not my heart ; for recol- 
lect, 
'Tis writ in Sanscrit which you bungle 

at. 
I've surely failed, I know, if failure; 

means 
To look back sadly on work gladly 

done, — 
To wander on my mountains of Delight, 
So calleQ, (I can reme:nber a fnend"s 

words 



As well as you, sir,) weary and in want 

Of even a sheep-path, thinking bitterly, . 

Well, well ! no matter. I but say so 
much, 

To keep you, Romney Leigh, from say- 
ing more. 

And let you feel 1 am not so high in- 
deed, 

That I can bear to liave you at my 
foot,— 

Or safe, that I can help you. That June- 
day, 

Too deeply sunk in craterous sunsets 
now 

For you or me to dig it up alive ; 

To pluck it out all bleeding with spent 
flame 

At the roots, before those moralising 
stars 

We have got instead, — that poor lost 
day, you said 

Some words as truthful as the thing of 
mine 

You cared to keep in memory : and I 
hold 

If I, that day, and, being the girl I was. 

Had shown a gentler spirit, less arro- 
gance, 

It had not hurt me. You will scarce 
mistake 

The point here. I but only think, you 
see. 

More justly, that's more humbly, of my- 
self. 

Than when I tried a crown on and 
supposed . . . 

Nay, laugh sir, — I'll laugh with you ! — 
pray you, laugh. 

I've had so many birthdays since that 
day, 

I've learnt to prize mirth's opportuni- 
ties, 

Which come too seldom. Was it you 
who said 

I was not changed? the .same Aurora? 
Ah, 

We could laugh there, too ! Why, 
Ulysses' dog 

Knew him, and wagged his tail and 
died : but if 

I had owned a dog, I too, before my 
Troy, 

And, if you brought him here, . . I war- 
rant you 



AURORA LEIGH. 



He'd look into my face, bark lustily. 

And live on stoutly, as the creatures will 

Whose spirits are not troubled by long 
loves 

A dog would never know me, I'm so 
changed, 

]\Iuch less a friend . . except you're mis- 
led 

By the colour of the hair, the trick of 
the voice. 

Like that Aurora Leigh's.' 

' Sweet trick of voice ! 

I would be a dog for this, to know it at 
last. 

And die upon the falls of it. O love, 

best Aurora ! are you then so sad, 
You scarcely had been sadder as my 

wife t ' 

' Your wife, sir ! I must certainly be 
changed 

If I, Aurora, can have said a thing 

So light, it catches at the knightly spurs 

Of a noble gentleman like Romney 
Leigh, 

And trips him from his honourable sense 

Of what befits ' . . 

' You wholly misconceive,' 

He answered 

I returned, — ' I'm glad of it : 

Ikit keep from misconception, too, your- 
self : 

1 am not humbled to so low a point. 
Nor so far saddened. If I am sad at 

all. 
Ten layers of birthdays on a woman's 

head 
Are apt to fossilise her girlish mirth. 
Though ne'er so merry : I am perforce 

more wise 
And that, in truth, means sadder. For 

the rest. 
Look here, sir : I was right upon tlie 

whole 
That birthday morning. 'Tis impossible 
To get at men excepting through their 

souls. 
However open their carnivorous jaws : 
And poets get directlier at the soul. 
Than any of your ceconomists : — for 

which 
You must not overlook the poet's work 
When scheming for the vvorld's necessi- 
ties, 



The soul's the way. Not even Christ 

Himself 
Can save man else than as He holds 

man's soul ; 
And therefore did He come into our 

flesh. 
As some wise hunter creeping on his 

knees 
With a torch, into the blackness of a 

cave. 
To face and quell the beast there, — take 

the sou!. 
And so possess the whole man, body and 

soul. 
I said, so far, right, yes ; rot farther, 

though : 
We both were wrong that June-day, — 

both as wrong 
As an east wind had been. I who talked 

of art, 
And you who grieved for all men's griefs 

. . . what then '! 
We surely made too small a part for God 
In these things. What we are, imports 

us more 
Than what we eat : and life, you've 

granted me. 
Develops from within But innermost 
Of the inmost, most interior of the in- 
terne, 
God claims his own, Divine humanity 
Renewing nature, — or the piercingest 

verse, 
Prest in by subtlest poet, still must keep 
As much upon the outside of a man 
As the very bowl in which he dips his 

beard. 

— And then, . . the rest ; I cannot surely 
speak. 

Perhaps I doubt more than you doubted 
then, 

If I, the poet's veritable charge. 

Have borne upon my forehead. If I 
have 

It might feel somewhat liker to a crown. 

The foolish green one even. — Ah, I think, 

And chiefly when the sun shines, thas 
I've failed. 

But what then, Romney ? Though we 
fail indeed, 

You . . I . . a score of such weak work- 
ers, . . He 

I'ails never. If He cannot work by us. 



AUK OKA IJUGH. 



He will work over ns. Does He wnnt 

a man. 
Much less a woman, think you ? Everj^ 

time 
The star winks there, so many souls arc 

born. 
Who all shall work too. Let our own 

be calm : 
We should be ashamed to sit beneath 

those stars. 
Impatient that we're nothing. 

' Could we sit 

Just so for ever, sweetest friend,' he said, 

' My failure would seem better than suc- 
cess. 

And yet indeed your book has dealt 
with me 

More gently, cousin, than you ever will ! 

The book brought down entire the 
bright June-day, 

And set me wandering in the garden- 
walks. 

And let me watch the garland in a place, 

You blushed so . . nay, forgive me ; do 
not stir : 

I only thank the book for what it taught. 

And what, permitted. Poet, doubt your- 
self, 

But never doubt that you're a poet to 
me 

From henceforth. You have written 
poems, sweet. 

Which moved me in secret, as the sap 
is moved 

In still March-branches, signless as a 
stone : 

But this last book o'ercame me like soft 
rain 

Which falls at mijlnight, when the 
tightened bark 

Breaks out into unhesitating buds 

And sudden protestations of the spring. 

In all your other books, 1 saw but you : 

A man may see the moon so, in a pond. 

And not the nearer therefore to the 
moon. 

Nor use the sight . . except to drown 
himself. 

And so I forced my heart back from the 
sight. 

For what had /, I thought, to do with her, 

Aurora . . Romr^ey ? But, in this last 
book, 



You showed me something separate froni 

yourself. 
Beyond you, and I bore to take it in. 
And let it draw me You have shown 

me truths, 
O June-day friend, that help me now at 

night 
When June is over ! truths not yours, 

indeed, 
But set within my reach by means cf 

you. 
Presented by your voice and verse the 

way 
To take them clearest. Yerily I wa-. 

wrong ; 
And verily many thinkers of this age. 
Ay, many Christian teachers, half i:i 

heaven. 
Are wrong in just my sense who under- 
stood 
Our natural world too insularly, as if 
No spiritual counterpart completed it 
Consummating its meaning, rounding 

all 
To justice and perfection, line by line. 
Form by form, nothing single nor alone. 
The great below clenched by the great 

above. 
Shade here authenticating substance 

there, 
The body proving spirit, as the effect 
The cause : we meantime being too 

grossly apt 
To hold the natural, as dogs a bone, 
(Though reason and nature beat us in 

the face) 
So obstinately, that we'll break our 

teeth 
Or ever we let go. For everywhere 
We're too materialistic, — eating clay 
(Like men of the west) instead of 

Adam's corn 
And Noah's wine ; clay by handfuls, 

clay by lumps. 
Until we're filled up to the throat with 

clay. 
And grow the grimy colour of the 

ground 
On which we are feeding. Ay, materi- 
alist 
The age's name is. God himself, with 

some. 
Is apprehended as the bare result 
Of what his hand materia'.lv has made, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Expressed in such an algebraic sign 
Called God ; — that is, to put it other- 
wise. 
They add up nature to a naught of God 
And cross the quotient. There are 

many even 
Whose names are written in the Chris- 
tian church 
To no dishonour, — diet still on mud, 
And splash the altars with it. You 

might thmk 
The clay, Christ laid upon their eyelids 

when, 
Still blind, he called them to the use of 

sight, 
Remained there to retard its exercise 
With clogging incrustations. Close to 

heaven. 
They see, for mysteries, through the 

open doors. 
Vague puffs of smoke from pots of 

earthenware ; 
And fain would enter, when their time 

shall come, • 

With quite another body than St Paul 
Has promised, — husk and chaff, the 

whole barley corn, 
Or Where's the resurrection ? ' 

' Thns it is,' 
I sighed. And he resumed with mourn- 
ful face. 
' Beginning so, and filling up with clay 
The wards of this great key, the natural 

world. 
And fumbling vainly therefore at the 

lock 
Of the spiritual, — we feel ourselves shut 

in 
With all the wild-beast roar of struggling 

life. 
The terrors and compunctions of our 

souls, 
As saints with lions, — we who are not 

saints. 
And have no heavenly lordship in our 

stare 
To awe them backward ! Ay, we arc 

forced, so pent. 
To judge the whole too partially, . . 

confound 
Conclusions. Is there any common 

phrase 
Significant, with the adverb heard 

alone. 



The verb being absent, and the pronoun 

out ? 
But we, distracted in the ro.ir of life 
Still insolently at God's adverb snatch. 
And bruit against Him that his thought 

IS void. 
His meaning hopeless, — cry, that every- 
where 
The government is slipping from his 

hand, 
Unless some other Christ.. say Romney 

Leigh . . 
Come up and toil and moil, and change 

the world, 
Because the Kirst has proved inadequate. 
However we talk bigly of His work 
And piously of His person. We blas- 
pheme 
At last, to finish our doxology, 
Despairing on the earth for which He 

died.' 
'So now I asked, 'you have more hope 
of men ? 

' I hope,' he answered : ' I am come to 

think 
That God will have his work done, as 

you said. 
And that we need not be disturbed too 

much 
For Romney Leigh or others having 

failed 
With this or that quack nostrum, — 

recipes 
For keeping summits by annulling 

depths. 
For wrestli:ig with luxurious lounging 

sleeves. 
And acting heroism without a scratch. 
We fail, — what, then? Aurora, if I 

smiled 
To see you, in your lovely morning- 
pride. 
Try on the poet's wreath which suits 

the noon, 
(Sweet cousin, walls must get the 

weather-stain 
Before they grow the ivy !)■ certainly 
1 stood myself there worthier of con- 
tempt. 
Self-rated, in disastrous arrogance. 
As competent to sorrow for mankind 
And even their odds. A man may well 

despair, 



A UK OR A LEIGH. 



Who counts himself so needful to suc- 
cess. 
I failed. I throw the remedy back on 

God. 
And sit down here beside you in good 

hope.' 
'And yet, take heed,' I answered, 'lest 

we lean 
Too dangerously on the other side. 
And so iail twice. Be sure, no earnest 

work 
Of any honest creature, howbeit weak, 
Imperfect, ill-adapted, fails so much, 
It is not gathered as a gram of sand 
To enlarge the sum of human action used 
For carrying out God's end. No crea- 
ture works 
So ill, observe, that therefore he's 

cashiered. 
The honest earnest man must stand and 

work. 
The woman also ; otherwise she drops 
At once below the dignity of man. 
Accepting serfdom. Free men freely 

work. 
Whoever fears God, fears to sit at ease.' 

He cried, 'True. After Adam, work 

was curse ; 
The natural creature labours, sweats and 

frets. 
But after Christ, work turns to privilege, 
And henceforth one with our humanity. 
The Six-day Worker, working still in us. 
Has called us freely to work on with 

Him 
In high companionship. So, happiest ! 
I count that Heaven itself is only work 
To a surer issue. Let us work, indeed. 
But no more work as Adam . . nor as 

Leigh 
Erewhile, as if the only man on earth. 
Responsible for all the thistles blown 
And tigers couchant, — struggling in 

amaze 
Against disease and winter, — snarling on 
For ever, that the world's not paradise. 
Oh cousin, let us be content, in work. 
To do the thing we can, and not presume 
To fret because it's little. 'Twill employ 
Seven men, they say, to make a perfect 

pin : 
Who makes the head, content to miss the 

point, 



Who makes the point, agreed to leave the 

join : 
And if a man should cry, ' I want a pin. 
' And I must make it straightway, head 

and point,' 
His wisdom is not worth the pin he 

wants. 
Seven men to a pin, — and not a man too 

much I 
Seven generations, haply, to this world. 
To right it visibly a finger's breadth. 
And mend its rents a Httle. Oh, to storm 
And say, ' This world here is intolerable ; 
' I will not eat this corn, nor drink this 

wine, 
' Nor love this woman, flinging her soul 
• Without a bond for 't as alover should, 
' Nor use the generous leave of happiness 
' As not too good for using generously' — 
(Since virtue kindles at the touch of joy. 
Like a man's cheek laid on a woman's 

hand. 
And God, who knows it, looks for quick 

returns 
From joys) to stand and claim to have 

a life 
Beyond the bounds of the individual 

man, 
And raze all personal cloisters of the 

soul 
To build up public stores and magazines. 
As if God's creatures otherwise were lost. 
The builder surely saved by any means ! 
To think, — I have a pattern on my nail. 
And 1 will carve the world new after it. 
And solve so, these hard social ques- 
tions, — nay, 
Impossible social questions, — since their 

roots 
Strike deep in Evil's own existence here. 
Which God permits because the ques- 
tion 's hard 
To abolish evil nor attaint free-will. 
Ay, hard to God, but not to Romney 

Leigh ! 
For Romney has a pattern on his nail, 
(Whatever may be lacking on the Mount) 
And not being overnice to separate 
What's element from what's convention, 

hastes 
By line on line to draw yon out a world. 
Without your help indeed, unless you 

take 
His yoke upon you and will learn of him. 



158 



AURORA LEIGH. 



\ 



So much he has to teach ! so good a 

world! 
The same, the whole creation's groaning 

for! 
No rich nor poor, no gain nor loss nor 

stint. 
No potage in it able to exclude 
A brother's birthright, and no right of 

birth, 
The potage — both secured to every man. 
And perfect virtue dealt out like the 

rest 
Gratuitously, with the soup at six. 
To whoso does not seek it.' 

' Softly, sir,' 
I interrupted, — ' I had a cousin once 
I held in reverence. If he strained too 

wide. 
It was not to take honour but to give 

help ; 
The gesture was heroic. If his hand 
Accomplished nothing . . (well, it is not 

proved) 
That empty hand thrown impotently out 
Were sooner caught, I think, by One in 

heaven. 
Than many a hand that reaped a har- 
vest in 
And keeps the scythe's glow on it. 

Pray you, then. 
For my sake merely, vise less bitterness 
In speaking of my cousin.' 

' Ah,' he said, 

* Aurora ! when the prophet beats the 

ass. 

The angel intercedes.' He shook his 
head — 

' And yet to mean so well and fail so 
foul. 

Expresses ne'er another beast than man ; 

The antithesis is human- Hearken, dear; 

There's too much abstract willing, pur- 
posing. 

In this poor world. We talk by aggre- 
gates, 

And think by systems ; and, being used 
to face 

Our evils in statistics, are inclined 

To cap them with unreal remedies 

Drawn out in haste on the other side the 
slate.' 

* That's true,' I answered, fain to throw 

up thought. 



And make a game oPt, — yes, we gene- 
ralise 
Enough to please you. If we pray at all. 
We pray no longer for our daily bread. 
But next centenary's harvests. If we 

give. 
Our cup of water is not tendered till 
We lay down pipes and found a Com- 
pany 
With Branches. Ass or angel, 'tis the 

same : 
A woman cannot do the thing she ought. 
Which means whatever perfect thing 

she can. 
In life, in art, in science, but she fears 
To let the perfect action take her part 
And rest there : she must prove what 

she can do 
Before she does it, — prate of woman's 

rights. 
Of woman's mission, woman's function, 

till 
The men (who are prating too on their 

side) cry, 
' A woman's function plainly is . . to 

talk.' 
Poor souls, they are very reasonably 

vexed ; 
They cannot hear each other speak.' 

' And you. 
An artist, judge so ?' 

' I, an artist, — yes. 
Because, precisely, I'm an artist, sir. 
And woman, — if another sate in sight, 
I'd whisper, — Soft, my sister! not a 

word ! 
By speaking we prove only we can speak : 
Which he, the man here, never doubted. 

What 
He doubts is whether we can do the 

thing 
With decent grace we've not yet done 

at all. 
Now, do it ; bring your statue, — you 

have room ! 
He'll see it even by the starlight here ; 
And if 'tis e'er so little like the god 
Who looks out from the marble silently 
Along the track of his own shining dart 
Through the dusk of ages, — there's no 

need to speak ; 
The universe shall henceforth speak for 

yol' 



AURORA LEIGH. 



159 



And witness, 'She who did this thing, 

was born 
To do it, — claims her Hcense in her 

worl:.' 
— And so with more works. Who cures 

the plague. 
Though twice a woman, shall be called 

a leech : 
Who rights a land's finances, is excused 
For touching coppers, though her hands 

be white, — 
But we, we talk !' 

' It is the age's mood,' 
He said ; ' we boast, and do not. We 

l)ut up 
Hostelry signs where'er we lodge a day. 
Some red colossal cow with mighty 

paps 
A Cyclops' fingers could not strain to 

milk ; 
Then bring out presently our saucer-full 
Of curds. We want more quiet in our 

works. 
More knowledge of the bounds in which 

we work ; 
More knowledge that each individual 

man 
Remains an Adam to the general race. 
Constrained to see, like Adam, that he 

keep 
His personal state's condition honestly. 
Or vain all thoughts of his to help the 

world, 
Which still must be developed from its 

one 
[f bettered in its many. We indeed. 
Who think to lay it out new like a. park, 
We take a work on us which is not 

man's. 
For God alone sits far enough above 
To speculate so largely. None of us 
(Not Romney Leigh) is mad enough to 

say. 
We'll have a grove of oaks upon that 

slope 
And sink the need of acorns. Govern- 
ment, 
If veritable and lawful, is not given 
By imposition of the foreign hand. 
Nor chosen from a pretty pattern-book 
Of some domestic idealogue who sits 
And coldly chooses empire, where as 

well 



He might republic. Genuine govern- 
ment 
Is but the expression of a nation, good 
Or less good, — even as all society. 
Howe'er unequal, monstrous, crazed, 

and cursed. 
Is but the expression of men's single 

lives. 
The loud sum of the silent units. What, 
We'd change the aggregate and yet 

retain 
Each separate figure ? Whom do we 

cheat by that ? 
Now, not even Romney.' 

' Cousin, you are sad. 

Did all your social labor at Leigh Hall 

And elsewhere, come to nought then 1 ' 

' It 7vas nought,* 

He answered mildly. 'There is room 

indeed 
For statues still, in this large world of 

God's, 
But not for vacuums, — so I am not sad : 
Not sadder than is good for what I am.' 
My vain phalanstery dissolved itself; 
My men and women of disordered lives, 
I brought in orderly to dine and sleep. 
Broke up those waxen masks I made 

them to wear. 
With fierce contortions of the natural 

face ; 
And cursed me for my tyrannous con- 
straint 
In forcing crooked creatures to live 

straight ; 
And set the country hounds upon my 

back 
To bite and tear me for my wicked 

deed 
Of trying to do good without the church 
Or even the squires, Aurora. Do you 

mind 
Your ancient neighbours? The great 

book-club teems 
With 'sketches,' ' summaries,' and Mast 

tracts ' but twelve. 
On socialistic troublers of close bonds 
Betwixt the generous rich and grateful 

poor. 
The vicar preached from ' Revelations,' 

(till 
The doctor woke) and found me with 

' the frogs ' 



AURORA LEIGH. 



On three successive Sundays ; ay, and 
stopped 

To weep a little (for he's getting old) 

That such perdition should o'ertake a 
man 

Of such fair acres, — in the parish, too ! 

He printed his discourses ' by request,' 

And if your book shall sell as his did, 
then 

Your verses are less good than I sup- 
pose. 

The women of the neighbourhood sub- 
scribed. 

And sent me a copy bound in scarlet silk, 

Tooled edges, blazoned with the arms of 
Leigh : 

I own that touched me.' 

' What, the pretty ones ? 

Poor Romney ! ' 

' Otherwise the effect was small. 

1 had my windows broken once or twice 

By liberal peasants naturally incensed 

At such a vexer of Arcadian peace. 

Who would not let men call their wives 
their own 

To kick like Britons, and made ob- 
stacles 

When things went smoothly as a baby 
drugged, 

Toward freedom and starvation ; bring- 
ing down 

The wicked London tavern-thieves and 
drabs 

To affront the blessed hillside drabs and 
thieves 

With mended morals, quotha, — fine 
new lives ! — 

My windows paid for^t. I was shot at, 
once. 

By an active poacher who had hit a 
hare 

From the other barrel, (tired of springe- 
ing game 

So long upon my acres, undisturbed. 

And restless for the country's virtue, — 
yet 

He missed me) — ay, and pelted very oft 

In riding through the village. ' There 
he goes 

• Who'd drive away our Christian gen- 

tlefolks, 

• To catch us undefended in the trap 

' He baits with poisonous cheese, and 
lock us up 



' In that pernicious prison of Leigh Hall 
' With all his murderers ! Give another 

name 
' And say Leigh Hell, and burn it up 

with fire.' 
And so they did at last, Aurora.' 

'Did?' 

' You never heard it, cousin ? Vincent's 

news 
Came stinted, then.' 

' They did ? they burnt Leigh Hall ? 

' You're sorry, dear Aurora ? Yes 

indeed. 
They did it perfectly : a thorough 

work. 
And not a failure, this time. Let us 

grant 
'Tis somewhat easier, though, to burn a 

house 
Than build a system : — yet that's easy, 

too. 
In a dream. Books, pictures, — ay, the 

pictures ! what. 
You think your dear Vandykes would 

give them pause ? 
Our proud ancestral Leighs with those 

peaked beards. 
Or bosoms white as foam thrown up on 

rocks 
From the old-spent wave. Such calm 

defiant looks 
They flared up with ! now nevermore 

to twit 
The bones in the family-vault with ugly 

death. 
Not one was rescued, save the Lady 

Maud, 
Who threw you down, that morning you 

were born. 
The undeniable lineal mouth and chin 
To wear for ever for her gracious sake ; 
For which good deed I saved her : the 

rest went : 
And you, you're sorry, cousin. Well, 

for me. 
With all my pha!an.sterians safely out, 
(Poor hearts, they helped the burners, 

it was said. 
And certainly a few clapped hands and 

yelled) 
The ruin did not hurt me as it might, — 
As when for instance I was hurt one day 



AURORA LEIGH. 



i6i 



A certain letter being destroyed. In 

fact, 
To see the great house flare so . . oaken 

floors, 
Our fathers made so fine with rushes 

once 
Before our mothers furbished them with 

trains. 
Carved wainscoats, panelled walls, the 

favourite slide 
For draining off a martyr, (or a rogue) 
The echoing galleries, half a half-mile 

long. 
And all the various stairs that took you 

up 
And took you down, and took you round 

about 
Upon their slippery darkness, recollect, 
All helping to keep up one blazing jest ; 
The flames through all the casements 

pushing forth 
Like red-hot devils crinkled into snakes. 
All signifying, — 'Look you, Romney 

Leigh, 
' We save the people from your saving, 

here, 
' Yet so as by fire ! we make a pretty 

show 
' Besides, — and that's the best you've 

ever done.' 

— To see this, almost moved myself to 

clap ! 
The ' vale et plaude ' came too with 

effect 
When, in the roof fell, and the fire that 

paused. 
Stunned momently beneath the stroke 

of slates 
And tumbling rafters, rose at once and 

roared, 
And wrapping the whole house, (which 

disappeared 
In a mounting whirlwind of dilated 

flame,) 
Blew upward, straight, its drift of fiery 

chaff 
In the face of heaven, . . which blench- 
ed, and ran up higher.' 

' Poor Romney !' 

' Sometimes when I dream,' he said, 
• 1 hear the silence after, 'twas so still. 



For all those wild beasts, yelfing, curs- 
ing round. 
Were suddenly silent, while you counted 

five. 
So silent, that you heard a young bird 

fall 
From the top-nest in the neighbouring 

rookery. 
Through edging over-rashly toward the 

light. 
The old rooks had already fled too far. 
To hear the screech they fled with, 

though you saw 
Some flying still, like scatterings of dead 

leaves 
In autumn-gusts, seen dark against the 

sky : 
All flying, — ousted, like the house of 

Leigh. 

Dear Romney ! 

'Evidently 'twould have been 
A fine sight for a poet, sweet, like you. 
To make'the verse blaze after. I myself. 
Even I, felt somethmg in the grand old 

trees, 
^'V^lich stood that moment like brute 

Druid gods 
Amazed upon the rim of ruin, where. 
As into a blackened socket, the great fire 
Had dropped, — still throwing up splin- 
ters now and then 
To show them grey with all their centu- 
ries. 
Left there to witness that on such a day 
The House went out.' 

' Ah !' 
' While you counted five 
I seemed to feel a little like a Leigh, — 
But then it passed, Aurora. A child 

cried. 
And I had enough to think of what to do 
With all those houseless wretches in the 

dark. 
And ponder where they'd dance the 

next time, they 
Who had burnt the viol.' 

' Did you think of that ? 
Who burns his viol will not dance, I 

know. 
To cymbals, Romney.' 

' O my sweet sad voice,' 



lURORA LEIGH. 



He cried, — ' O voice that speaks and 

overcomes ! 
The sun is silent, but Aurora speaks.' 

' Alas,' I said ; ' I speak I know not 

what : 
I'm back in childhood, thinking as a 

child, 
A foolish fancy — will it make you smile ? 
I shall not from the window of my room 
Catch sight of those old chimneys any 



' No more,' he answered. ' If you pushed 

one day 
Through all the green hills to our father's 

house. 
You'd come upon a great charred circle 

where 
The patient earth was singed an acre 

round ; 
With one stone-stair, symbolic of mv 

life. 
Ascending, winding, leading up to 

Jiought ! 
'Tis worth a poet's seeing. Will you 

go?' 

I made no answer. Had I any right 

To weep with this man, that 1 dared to 
speak ! 

A woman stood between his soul and 
mine. 

And waved us off from touching ever- 
more 

With those unclean white hands of hers. 
Enough. 

We had burnt our viols and were silent. 
So. 

The silence lengthened till it pressed. I 
spoke, 

To breathe : ' I think you were ill after- 
ward.' 

More ill,' he answered, , ' had been 

scarcely ill. 
I hoped this feeble fumbling at life's 

knot 
Might end concisely, — but I failed to 

die. 
As formerly I failed to live, — and thus 
Grew willing, having tried all other 

ways. 



To try just God's. Humility's so good. 
When pride's impossible. Mark us, 

how we make 
Our virtues, cousin, from our worn-out 

sins. 
Which smack of them from henceforth. 

Is it right, 
For instance, to wed here while you 

love there 't 
And yet because a man sins once, the 

sin 
Cleaves to him, in necessity to sin. 
That if he sinned not so, to damn him- 
self, 
He sins so, to damn others with himself : 
And thus to wed here, loving there, be- 
comes 
A duty. Virtue buds a dubious leaf 
Round mortal brows ; your ivy's better, 

dear. 
— Yet she, 'tis certam, is my very wife. 
The very lamb left mangled by the 

wolves 
Through my own bad shepherding : and 

could 1 choose 
But take her on my shoulder past this 

stretch 
Of rough, uneasy wilderness, poor lamb. 
Poor child, poor child? — Aurora, my 

beloved, 
I will not vex you any more to-night. 
But having spoken what I came to say. 
The rest shall please you. What she 

can in me, — 
Protection, tender liking, freedom, ease. 
She shall have surely, liberally, for her 
And hers, Aurora. Small amends they'll 

make 
For hideous evils which she had not 

known 
Except by me, and for this imminent 

loss, 
This forfeit presence of a gracious friend. 
Which also she must forfeit for my sake. 
Since, .... drop your hand in mine a 

moment, sweet. 
We're parting ! Ah, my snowdrop, 

what a touch. 
As if the wind had swept it off! you 

grudge 
Your gelid sweetness on my palm but 

so, 
A moment? angry, that I could not 

bear 



AURORA LEIGH. 



You . . "speaking, breathing, living, side 

by side 
With some one called my wife . . and 

live, myself? 
Nay, be not cruel — you must under- 
stand ! 
Your lightest footfall on a floor of mine 
Would shake the house", my lintel being 

uncrossed 
'Gainst angels : henceforth it is night 

with me. 
And so, henceforth, I put the shutters 

up: 
Auroras must not come to spoil my 

dark.' 

He smiled so feebly, with an empty 

hand 
Stretched sideways from me, — as indeed 

he looked 
To any one but me to give him help, — 
And while the moon came suddenly out 

full. 
The double rose of our Italian moons. 
Sufficient plainly for the heaven and 

earth, 
(The stars, struck dumb and washed 

away in dews 
Of glory, and the mountains steeped 
In divine languor) lie the man, ap- 
peared 
So pale and patient, like the marble 

man 
A sculptor puts his personal sadness in 
To join his grandeur of ideal thought, — 
As if his mallet struck me from my 

height 
Of passionate indignation, I who had 

risen 
Pale, — doubting, paused, .... Was 

Romney mad indeed? 
Had all this wrong of heart made sick 

the brain ? 

Then quiet, with .1 sort of tremulous 

pride, 
' Go, cousin,' I said coldly ; ' a farewell 
Was .sooner spoken 'twixt a pair of 

friends 
In those old days, than seems to suit you 

now. 
Howbeit, since then, I've writ a book 

or two, i 



I'm somewhat dull still in the manly art 
Of phrase and metaphrase. Why, any 

man 
Can carve a score of white Loves out of 

snow, 
As Buonarotti in my Florence there. 
And set them on the wall in some safe 

shade. 
As safe, sir, as your marriage ! very 

good : 
Though if a woman took one from the 

ledge 
To put it on the table by her flowers. 
And let it mind her of a certain friend, 
'Twould drop at once, (so better,) would 

not bear 
Her nail-mark even, where she took it 

up 
A little tenderly ; so best, I say : 
For me, 1 would not touch the fragile 

thing. 
And risk to spoil it half an hour before 
The sun shall shine to melt it : leave it 

there. 
I'm plain at speech, direct in purpose : 

when 
I speak, you'll take the meaning as it is. 
And not allow for puckerings in the silk 
By clever stitches. I'm a woman, sir. 
And use the woman's figures naturally. 
As you the male license. So, I wish 

you well. 
I'm simply sorry for the griefs you've 

had 
And not for your sake only, but man- 
kind's. 
This race is never grateful : from the 

first. 
One fills their cup at supper with pure 

wine, 
Which back they give at cross-time on 

a sponge, 
In vinegar and gall.' 

' If gratefuller,' 
He murmured, — ' by so much less pitia- 
ble ! 
God's self would never have come down 

to die, 
Could man have thanked him for it.' 

' Happily 
'Tis patent that, whatever,' I resumed, 
' You suffered from this thanklessness 
of men. 



i64 



AURORA LEIGH. 



You sink no more than Moses' bulrush - 

boat 
When you once rcHeved of Moses ; for 

you're light, 
You're light, my cousin ! which is well 

for you. 
And manly. For myself, — now mark 

me, sir. 
They burnt Leigh Hall ; but if, con- 
summated 
To devils, heightened beyond Lucifers, 

They had burnt instead a star or two of 

those 
We saw above there just a moment 
back. 

Before the moon abolished them, — des- 
troyed 

And riddled them iu ashes through a 
sieve 

On the head of the foundering uni- 
verse, — what then? 

If you and I remained still you and I, 

It could not shift our places as mere 
friends. 

Nor render decent you should toss a 
phrase 

Beyond the point of actual feeling! — 
nay. 

You shall not interrupt me : as you said. 

We're parting. Certainly, not once or 
twice 

To-night you've mocked me somewhat, 
or yourself. 

And I, at least, have not deserved it so 

That I should meet it unsurprised. But 
now. 

Enough : we're parting . . parting. 
Cousin Leigh, 

I wish you well through all the acts of 
life 

And life's relations, wedlock not the 
least. 

And it shall ' please me,' in your words, 
to know 

You yield your wife, protection, free- 
dom, ease, 

And very tender liking. May you live 

Sj happy with her, Romney, that your 
friends 

May praise her for it. Meantime some 
of us 

Are wholly dull in keeping ignorant 

Of what she has suffered by you, jnd 
what debt 



Of sorrow your rich love sits down to 

pay : 
But if 'tis sweet for love to pay its debt, 
'lis sweeter slill for love to give its gift. 
And you, be liberal ui the sweeter way. 
You can, I think. At least, as touches 

me. 
You owe her, cousin Romney, no 

amends. 
She is not used to hold my gown so fast. 
You need entreat her now to let it go : 
The lady never was a friend of mine. 
Nor capable, — I thought you knew as 

much, — 
Of losing for your sake so poor a prize 
As such a worthless friendship. Be con- 
tent. 
Good cousin, therefore, both for her and 

you ! 
I'll never spoil your dark, nor dull your 

noon. 
Nor vex you when you're merry, or at 

rest : 
You shall not need to put a shutter up 
To keep out this Aurora, — though your 

north 
Can make Auroras which vex nobody. 
Scarce known from night, I fancied ! let 

me add. 
My larks fly higher than some windows. 

Well, 
You've read your Leighs. Indeed 

'twould shake a house. 
If such as I came in with outstretched 

hand 
Still warm and thrilling from the clasp 

of one . . 
Of one we know, . . to acknowledge, 

palm to palm. 
As mistress there . . the Lady Walde- 

mar.' 

' Now God be with us ' . . with a sudden 

clash 
Of voice he interrupted — ' what name's 

that ? 
You spoke a name, Aurora.' 

' Pardon me ; 
I would that, Romney, I could name 

your wife 
Nor wound you, yet be worthy.' 

' Are we mad ?' 
He echoed — 'wife! mine! Lady Wal- 

demar ! 



AUK OR A LEIGH. 



I think you said my wife.' He sprang 
to his feet, 

And threw his noble head back toward 
the moon 

As one who swims against a stormy sea, 

And laughed with such a helpless, hope- 
less scorn, 

I stood and trembled. 

'May God judge me so,' 
He said at last, — ' 1 came convicted 

here. 
And humbled sorely if not enough. I 

came. 
Because this woman from her crystal 

soul 
Had shown me something which a man 

calls light : 
Because too, formerly, I sinned by her 
As then and ever since I have, by God. 
Through arrogance of nature,— though I 

loved . . 
Whom best, I need not say, . . since that 

is writ 
Too plainly in the book of my misdeeds: 
And thus I came here to abase myself. 
And fasten, kneeling, on her regent 

brows 
A garland which I startled thence one 

day 
Of her beautiful June-youth. But here 

again 
I'm baffled ! — fail in my abasement as 
My aggrandisement : there's no room 

left for me 
At any woman's foot who misconceives 
My nature, purpose, possible actions. 

What ! 
Are you the Aurora who made large my 

dreams 
To frame your greatness ? you conceive 

so small ? 
You stand so less than woman, through 

being more. 
And lose your natural instinct, hke a 

beast, 
Through intellectual culture? since in- 
deed 
I do not think that any common she 
Would dare adopt such monstrous for- 
geries 
For the legible life-signature of such 
As I, with all my blots : with all my 

blots I 



At last then, peerless cousin, we are 

peers — 
At last we're even. Ah, you've left 

your height, 
And here upon my level we take hands. 
And here I reach you to forgive you, 

sweet. 
And that's a fall, Aurora. Long ago 
You seldom imderstood me, — but before, 
I could not blame you. Then, you only 

seemed 
So high above, you could not see be- 
low ; 
But now I breathe, — but now I pardon ! 

— nay. 
We're parting. Dearest, men have 

burnt my house. 
Maligned my motives, — but not one, I 

swear. 
Has wronged my soulasthis Aurora has. 
Who called the Lady Waldemar my 

wife. 

' Not married to her ! yet you said ' . . 

' Again ? 
' Nay, read the lines ' (he held a letter 

out) 
' She sent you through me.' 

By the moonlight there, 
I tore the meaning out with passionate 

haste 
Much rather than I read it. Thus it 

ran. 



NINTH BOOK. 

Even thus. I pause to write it out at 

length, 
The letter of the Lady Waldemar. 

' I prayed your cousin Leigh to take you 

this, 
He says he'll do it. After years of love, 
Or what is called so, — when a woman 

frets 
And fools upon one string of a man's 

name, 
And fingers it for ever till it breaks,— 
He may perhaps do for her such thing, 
And slie accept it without detriment 
Although she should not love him any 

more. 



t66 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And I, who do not love him, nor love 

you, 
Nor you, Aurora, — choose you shall re- 
pent 
Your most ungracious letter and confess, 
Constrained by his convictions, (he's 

convinced) 
You've wronged me foully. Are you 

made so ill, 
You woman — to impute such ill to me ? 
We both had mothers, — lay in their 

bosom once. 
And, after all, I thank you, Aurora 

Leigh, 
For proving to myself that there are 

things 
1 would not do, . . not for my life . . 

nor him . . 
Though something I hare somewhat 

overdone, — 
For instance, when I went to see the 

gods 
One morning on Olympus, with a step 
That shook the thunder from a certain 

cloud. 
Committing myself vilely. Could I think, 
The Muse 1 pulled my heart out from 

my breast 
To soften, had herself a sort of heart, 
And loved my mortal ? He, at least 

loved lier, 
I heard him say so ; 'twas my recom- 
pense. 
When, watching at his bedside fourteen 

days, 
He broke out like a flame at whiles 
Between the heats of fever , . ' Is it thou? 
' Breathe closer, sweetest mouth ! ' and 

when at last 
The fever gone, the wasted face extinct 
As if it irked him much to know me 

there, 
He said, ' 'Twaskind, 'twas good, 'twas 

womanly,' 
(And fifty praises to excuse no love) 
' But was the picture safe he had ven- 
tured for ? ' 
And then, half wandering . • ' I liave 

loved her well, 
* Although she could not love me.' — 

' Say mstead,' 
I answered, ' she does love you.' — 'Twas 

my turn 
To rave : I would have married him so 

changed, 



Although the world had jeered me prop- 
erly 
For taking up with Cupid at his worst, 
The silver quiver worn off on his hair. 
' No, no,' he murmured, 'no, she loves 

me not ; 
' Aurora Leigh does better: bring her 

book 
' And read it softly. Lady Waldemar, 
' Until I thank your friendship more for 

that 
'Than even for harder service.' So I 

read 
Your book, Aurora, for an hour that 

day : 
I kept its pauses, marked its emphasis ; 
My voice, empaled upon its hooks of 

rhyme, 
Not once would writhe, nor quiver, nor 

revolt ; 
I read on calmly, — calmly shut it up. 
Observing, ' There's some merit in the 

book ; 
' And yet the merit in't is thrown away 
' As chances still with women if we 

write 
' Or write not: we want string to tie our 

flowers, 
' So drop them as we walk, which serves 

to show 
' The way we went. Good morning, 

Mister Leigh ; 
' Youll find another reader the next 

time. 
' A woman wlio does better than to love, 
' I hate ; she will do nothing very well : 
' Male poets are preferable, straining 

less 
' And teaching more.' I triumphed o'er 

you both. 
And left him. . 

' When I saw him afterward, 
I had read your shameful letter, and my 

heart. 
He came with health recovered, strong 

though pale. 
Lord Howe and he, a corteous pair of 

friends, 
To say what men dare say to women, 

when 
Their debtors. But I stopped them with 

a word, 
And proved I had never trodden such a. 

road 
To carry so much dirt upon my shoe. 



AURORA LEIGH. 



167 



Then, putting into it something of dis- 
dain, 
I asked forsooth his pardon, and my 

own, 
For having done no better than to love, 
And that not wisely,— though 'twas long 

ago, 
And had been mended radically since. 
I told him, as I tell you now Miss 

Leigh, 
And proved I took some trouble for his 

sake 
(Because I knew he did not love the 

girl) 
To spoil my hands with working in tlie 

stream 
Of that poor bubbling nature, — till she 

went, 
Consigned to one I trusted, my own 

maid, 
Who once had lived full five months in 

my house, 
(Dressed hair superbly) with a lavish 

purse 
To carry to Australia where she had left 
A husband, said she. If the creature 

lied. 
The mission failed, we all do fail and lie 
More or less — and I'm sorry — which is 

all 
Expected from us when we fail the most 
And go to church to own it. What I 

meant, 
Was just the best for him, and me, and 

her . . 
Best even for Marian ! — I am sorry for't. 
And very sorry. Yet my creature said 
She saw her stop to speak in Oxford 

Street 
To one . . no matter ! I had sooner cut 
My hand off (though 'twere kissed the 

hour before. 
And promised a Duke's troth-ring for 

the next) 
Than crush her silly head with so much 

wrong. 
Poor child ! I would have mended it 

with gold. 
Until it gleamed like St. Sophia's dome 
When all the faithful troop to morning 

prayer : 
But he, he nipped the bud of such a 

thought 
With that cold Leigh look \\hich I fan- 
cied once, 



And broke in, ' Henceforth she was called 

his wife. 
' His wife required no succour : he was 

bound 
' To Florence, to resume this broken 

bond : 
' Enough so. Both were happy, he and 

Howe, 
' To acquit me of the heaviest charge of 

all — ' 
— At which I shut my tongue against niv 

fly 
And struck him ; 'Would he carry, — he 

was just, 
' A letter horn nie to Aurora Leigh, 
' And ratify from his authentic mouth 
' My answer to her accusation .' ' — ' Yes, 
' If such a letter were prepared in time.' 
— He's just, your cousin, — ay, abhor- 
rently. 
He'd wash his hands in blood to keep 

them clean. 
And so, cold, courteous, a mere gentle- 
man, 
He bowed, we parted. 

' Parted. Face no more, 
Voice no more, love no more ! wiped 

wholly out 
Like some ill scholar's scrawl from heart 

and slate.— 
Ay, spit on and so wiped out utterly 
By some coarse scholar 1 I have been 

too coarse. 
Too human. Have we business, in our 

rank, 
With blood i' the veins.'' I will have 

henceforth none. 
Not even to keep the colour at my lip. 
A rose is pink and pretty without blood ; 
Why not a woman ? When we've 

played in vain 
The game, to adore,— we have resources 

still. 
And can play on at leisure, being 

adored : 
Here's Smith already swearing at my 

feet 
That I'm the typic She. Away with 

Smith !— 
Smith smacks of Leigh, — and, hence- 
forth I'll admit 
No socialist within three crinoHnes, 
To live and have his being. But for 

you. 
Though insolent your letter and absurd, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And though I hate you frankly,— take 
my Smith ! 

For when you have seen this famous 
marriage tied, 

A most inispotted Erie to a noble Leigh, 

(His love astray on one he should not 
love) 

Howbeit you may not want his love, be- 
ware, 

You'll want some comfort. So I leave 
you Smith ; 

Take Smith !— he talks Leigh's snbjecis, 
somewhat worse ; 

Adopts a thought of Leigh's, and dwin- 
dles it ; 

Goes leagues beyond, to be no incli be- 
hind ; 

Will mind you of liini, as a slioe-string 
may 

V>{ a man : and women, when ihey are 
made like you, 

Grow tender to a shoe-string, foot-jirint 
even, 

Adore averted shoulders in a glass, 

And memories of what, present once, 
was loathed. 

And yet, you loathed not Ronniey, — 
though you played 

At 'fox and goose' about him with your 
soul : 

Pass over fox, you rub out fox, — ignore 

A feeling, you eradicate it, — the act's 

Identical. 

' i wish you joy. Miss Leigh, 
You've made a happy marrirge for your 

friend. 
And all the honour, well-assorted love, 
Derives from you who love him, whom 

he loves ! 
You need not wish me joy to think of it, 
I have so much. Observe, Aurora Leigh, 
Your droop of eyelid is the same as his, 
And, but for you, I might have won his 

love. 
And, to you, I have shown my naked 

heart, — 
For which three things I hate, hate, hate 

you. Hush, 
Suppose a fourth !— I cannot choose but 

think 
That, with him, I were virtuouser than 

you 
Without him : so I hate vou from this 

gulf 



And hollow of my soul, which opens 

out 
To what, except for you, had been my 

heaven, 
And is instead, a place to curse by ! 

Love.' 

An active kind of curse. I stood there 

cursed 
Confounded. I had seized and caught 

the sense 
Of the letter with its twenty stinging 

snakes. 
In a moment's sweep of eyesight, and I 

stood 
Dazed. — ' Ah ! — not married ? ' 

' You mistake,' he said, 
' I'm married. Is not Marian Erie my 

wife ? _ 

As God sees things, I have a wife and 

child ; 
And I, as I'm a man who honours God, 
Am here to claim them as my child and 

wife.' 

I felt It hard to breathe, much less to 

speak. 
Nor word of mine was needed. Some 

one else 
Was there for answering. ' Romney,' 

she began, 
' My great good angel, Romney.' 

Then at first, 
I knew that Marian Erie was beautiful. 
She stood there, still and pallid as a 

saint, 
Dilated, like a saint in ecstacy. 
As if the floating moonshine interposed 
Betwixt her foot and the earth, and raised 

her up 
To float upon it. ' I had left my child, 
Who sleeps,' she said, ' and having 

drawn this way 
I heard you speaking, . . friend !— Con- 
firm me now. 
You take this Marian, such as wicked 

men 
Have made her, for your honourable 

wife ? ' 

The thrilling, solemn, proud, pathetic 

voice. 
He stretched his arms out toward the 

thrilling voice, 
As if to draw it on to his embrace. , 



AURORA LEIGH. 



169 



— * I take her as God made her, and as 
men 

Must fail to unmake her, for my hon- 
oured wife.' 

She never raised her eyes, nor took a 

step, 
But stood there in her place, and spoke 

again. 
< — ' You take this Marian's child, which 

is her shame 
In sight of men and women, for your 

child, 
Of whom you will not ever feel ashamed ? ' 

The thrilling, tender, proud, pathetic 

voice. 
He stepped on toward it, still with out- 
stretched arms. 
As if to quench upon his breast that 

voice. 
— ' May God so father me, as I do him, 
And so forsake me as I let him feel 
He's orphaned haply. Here I take the 

child 
To share my cup, to slumber on my 

knee. 
To play his loudest gambol at my foot, 
To hold my finger in the public ways. 
Till none shall need inquire, ' Whose 

child is this,' 
The gesture saying so tenderly, ' My 

own.' ' 

She stood a moment silent in her place ; 
Then turning toward me very slow and 

cold— 
— ' And you, — what say you ? — will you 

blame me much, 
If, careful for that outcast child of mine, 
I catch this hand that's stretched to me 

and him. 
Nor dare to leave him friendless in the 

world 
Where men have stoned me ? Have I 

not the right 
To take so mere an aftermath from life. 
Else found so wholly bare? Or is it 

wrong 
To let your cousin, for a generous bent. 
Put out liis ungloved fingers among 

briars 
To set a tumbling bird's nest somewhat 

straight ? 



You will not tell him, thougli we're inno- 
cent 
We are not harmless, . . and that botli 

our harms 
Will stick to his good smooth noble life 

like burrs, 
Never to drop off though lie shakes the 

cloak ? 
You've been my friend : you will not now 

be his ? 
You've known him that he's worthy of a 

friend. 
And you're his cousin, lady, after all. 
And therefore more than free to take his 

part. 
Explaining, since the nest is surely 

spoilt. 
And Marian what you know lier, — tliough 

a wife, 
The world would hardly understand her 

case 
Of being just hurt and honest ; while for 

him, 
'Twouid ever twit liim with his bastard 

child 
And married harlot. Speak, while yet 

there's time: 
You would not stand and let a good 

man's dog 
Turn round and rend him, because his, 

and reared 
Of a generous breed, — and will you let 

his act, 
Because it's generous? Speak. I'm 

bound to you, 
And I'll be bound by only you, in this ' 
The thrilling solemn voice, so passion- 
less, 
Sustained, yet low, without arise or fall. 
As one who had authority to speak, 
And not as Marian. 

I looked up to feel 
If God stood near me, and beheld his 

heaven 
Asblueas Aaron's priestly robe appeared 
To Aaron when lie took it off to die. 
And then I spoke—' Accept the gift, I 

say, 
My sister Marian, and be satisfied. 
The hand that gives, has still a soul be- 
hind 
Which will not let it quail for having 

given. 
Though foolish wordlings talk they know 

not what 



I70 



AURORA LEIGH. 



Of what they know not. Romney's 

strong enough 
For this : do you be strong to know he's 

strong : 
He stands on Right's side ; never flinch 

for him, 
As if he stood on the other. You'll be 

bound 
By me ? I am a woman of repute ; 
No fly-blow gossip ever specked my life ; 
My name is clean and open as this hand. 
Whose glove there's not a man dares 

blab about 
As if he had touched it freely. Here's 

my hand 
To clasp your hand, my Marian, owned 

as pure ! 
As pure, — as I'm a woman and n 

Leigh !- 
And, as I'm both, I'll witness to the 

world 
That Romney Leigh is honoured in his 

choice 
Who chooses Marian for his honoured 

wife.' 

Her broad wild woodland eves shot out a 

light; 
Her smile was wonderful for rapture. 

' Tlianks, 
My great Aurora.' Forward then she 

sprang. 
And dropping her impassioned spaniel 

head 
With all its brown abandonment of curls 
On Romney's feet, we heard the kisses 

drawn 
Through sobs upon the foot, upon the 

ground— 
' O Romney ! O my angel ! O unchanged. 
Though since we've parted I have passed 

the grave ! 
But Death itself could only better thee. 
Not change thee \—Thee 1 do not thank 

at all : 
I but thank God who made thee what 

than art, 
So wholly godlike.' 

\yhen he tried in vain 
To raise her to his embrace, escaping 

thence 
As any leaping fawn from a huntsman's 

grasp 
She bounded off and 'lighted beyond 

reach, 



Before him with a staglike majesty 

Of soft, serene defiance, — as she knew 

He could not touch her, so was tolerant 

He had cared to try. She stood there 
with her great 

Drowned eyes, and dripping cheeks, and 
strange sweet smile 

That lived through all, as if one lield a 
light 

Across a waste of waters, — shook her 
head 

To keep some thoughts down deeper in 
her soul,— 

Tlien, white and tranquil like a summer- 
cloud 

Which, having rained itself to a tardy 
peace, 

Stands still in lieaveir as if it ruled the 
day. 

Spoke out again — ' Although, my gener- 
ous friend, 

Since last we met and parted you're i:n. 
changed. 

And, having promised faith to Marian 

Maintain it, as she were not changed at 

all; 
And though that's worthy, though that's 

full of balm 
To any conscious spirit of a girl 
Who once has loved you as 1 loved you 

once, — 
Yet still it will not make her . . if she's 

dead, 
And gone away where none can give or 

take 
In marriage, — able to revive, return 
And wed you, — will it Romney? Here's 

the point ; 
O friend, we'll see it plainer: you and I 
Must never, never, never join hands so; 
Nay, let me say it, — for I said it first 
To God, and placed it, rounded to an 

oath, 
Far, far above the moon there, at His 

feet, 
As surely as I wept just now at yours, — ■ 
We never, never, never join hands so. 
And now, be patient with me ; do not 

think 
I'm speaking from a false humility. 
The truth is, I am grown so proud with 

grief. 
And He has said so often through hit 

nights 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And through his mornings, ' Weep a 

little still, 
* Thou foolish Marian, because women 

must, 
' But do not blush at all except for sin,'— 
That I, who felt myself unworthy once 
Of virtuous Romney and his higli-born 

race, 
Have come to learn, . . a woman poor 

or rich, 
Despised or honoured, is a human soul : 
And what her soul is,— that, she is her- 
self. 
Although she should be spit upon of 

men, 
As is the pavement of the churches 

here, 
Still good enough to pray in. And be- 
ing chaste 
And honest, and inclined to do ihe 

right. 
And love the truth, and live my life out 

green 
And smooth beneath his steps, I should 

not fear 
To, make hirh thus a less uneasy time 
Than many a happier woman. Very 

proud 
You see me. Pardon, that I set a trap 
To hear a confirmation in your voice . . 
Both yours and yours. It is so good to 

know 
'Twas really God who said the same be- 
fore : 
For thus it is in heaven, that first God 

speaks, 
And then his angels. Oh, it does me 

good. 
It wipes me clean and sweet from devil's 

dirt. 
That Romney Leigh should think me 

worthy still 
Of being liis true and honourable wife ! 
Henceforth I need not say, on leaving 

earth, 
I had o glory in it. For the rest. 
The reason's ready (master, angel, 

friend. 
Be patient with me) wherefore you and I 
Can never, never, never join hands so. 
1 know you'll not be angry like a man 
{Yov yon are none) when I shall tell the 

truth. 
Which is, I do not love you, Romney 

Leigh, 



I do not love you. Ah well ! catch my 

hands. 
Miss Leigh, and burn into my eyes with 

yours, — 
I swear 1 do rot love him. Did I once.'' 
'Tis said that women have been bruised 

to death. 
And yet, if once they loved, that love of 

theirs 
Could never be drained out with all their 

blood: 
I've heard such things and pondered. 

Did 1 indeed 
Love once ? or did I only worship ? 

Yes, 
Perhaps, O friend, I set you up so high 
Above all actual good or hope of good 
Or fear of evil, all that could be mine, 
I haply set you above love itself 
And out of reach of these poor women's 

arms, 
Angelic Romney. What was in my 

thought ? 
To be your slave, your help, your toy, 

your tool. 
To be your love . . I never thought of 

that. 
To give you love . . still less. I gave 

you love.'' 
I think I did not give you anything ; 
I was but only yours, — upon my knees, 
All yours, in soul and body, in head 

and heart, 
A creature you had taken from the 

ground, 
Still crumbling through your fingers to 

your feet 
To join the dust she came from. Did I 

love. 
Or did I worship? judge, Aurora Leigh ! 
But, if indeed I loved, 'twas long ago, — • 
So long ! before the sun and moon were 

made. 
Before the hells were open, — ah, before 
I heard my child cry in the desert night, 
And knew he had no father. It may 

be 
I'm not as strong as other women are. 
Who, torn and crushed, are not undone 

from love. 
It may be, I am colder than the dead, 
Who, being dead, love always. Eut for 

me 
Once killed, . . this ghost of Marian 

loves no more, 



172 



AURORA LEIGH. 



No more . . except the child ! . . no 

more at all. 
I told your coosin, sir, that I was dead ; 
And now, she thinks I'll get up from my 

grave. 
And wear my chin-cloth for a wedding 

veil, 
And glide along the churchyard like a 

bride, 
While all the dead keep whispering 

through the withes, 
' You would be better in your place with 

us, 
' You pitiful corruption ! ' At the 

thought. 
The damps breaks out on me like lep- 
rosy 
Although I'm clean. Ay, clean as Ma- 
rian Erie : 
As Marian Leigh, I know, I were not 

clean: 
I have not so much life that I should 

love, 
. . Except the child. Ah God 1 I could 

not bear 
To see my darling on a good man's 

knees 
And know by such a look, or such a 

sigh. 
Or such a silence, that he thought some- 
times, 
* This child was fathered by some cursed 

wretch ' . . 
For, Romney,— angels are less tender- 
wise 
Than God and mothers: even you 

would think 
What -we think never. He is ours, the 

child; 
And we would sooner vex a soul in 

heaven 
By coupling with it the dead body's 

thought, 
It left behind it in a last month's grave, 
Than, in my child, see other than . . 

my child. 
We only, never call him fatherless 
Who has God and his mother. O my 

babe, 
My pretty, pretty blossom, an ill-wind 
Once blew upon my breast ! can any 

think 
I'd have another, — one called happier, 
A fathered child, with father's love and 

race 



That's worn as bold and open as a smile, , 
To vex my darling when he's asked his; 

name i 

And has no answer? What! a happier i 

child 
Than mine, my best, — who laughed so 

loud to-night 
He could not sleep for pastime? Nay, 

I swear 
By life and love, that, if I lived like ■ 

some, 
And loved like . . some . . ay, loved 1 

you, Romney Leigh, 
As some love (eyes that have wept so 

much, see clear) 
I've room for no more children in my 

arms, 
My kisses are all melted on one mcuth, 
I would not push my darling to a stool 
To dandle babies. Here's a hand shall 

keep 



For ever clean without a marriage-ring, y 
To tend my boy until he cease to need jj 
One steadying finger of it, and desert j 
(Not miss) his mother's lap, to sit with 'j 

men. i] 

And when I miss him (not he me) I'll j 

come I 

And say, ' Now give me some (if Rom- \ 

ney's work, 
To help your outcast orphans of the 

world, 
And comfort grief with grief.' For you, ; 

meantime, i 

Most noble Romney, wed a noble wife, I 
And open on each other your great | 

souls, — 1 

I need rot farther bless you. If I dared * 
But strain and touch her in her upper ' 

sphere 
And say, ' Come down to Romney — pay 

my debt ! ' 
I should be joyful with the stream of 

joy 
Sent through me. But the moon is m 

my face . . 
I dare not, — though I guess the name 

he loves ; 
I'm learned with my studies of old days. 
Remembering how he crushed his under- ' 

lip 
When some one came and spoke, or did 

not come : 
Aurora, I could touch her with my hand. 
And fly, because I dare not.' 



AURORA LEIGH. 



173 



She was gone. 

He smiled so sternly that I spoke in 
in haste. 

' Forgive her — she sees dearly for her- 
self: 

Her instinct's holy.' 

' / forgive.' ' he said, 
' I only marvel how she sees so sure, 
While others ' . . there lie paused, — 

then hoarse, abrupt, — 
' Aurora, you forgive us, her and me ? 
For her, the thing she sees, poor loyal 

child. 
If once corrected by the thing I know, 
Had been unspoken, since she loves you 

well. 
Has leave to love you: — while for me, 

alas. 
If once or twice I let my heart escape 
This night, . . remember, where hearts 

slip and fall 
They break beside: we're parting, — 

parting, — ah. 
You do not love, that you should surely 

know 
What that word means. Forgive, be 

tolerant ; 
It had not been, but that I felt myself 
So safe in impuissance and despair, 
I could not hurt you though I tossed my 

arms 
And sighed my soul out. The most 

utter wretch 
Will choose his postures when he comes 

to die. 
However in the presence of a queen : 
And j'ou'll forgive me some unseemly 

spasms 
Which meant no more than dying. Do 

you think 
I had ever come here i;i my perfect 

mind. 
Unless I had come here in my settled 

mind 
Bound Marian's, bound to keep the bond 

and give 
My name, my house, my hand, the 

things I could. 
To Marian ? For even I could give as 

much : 
Even I, affronting her exalted soul 
By a supposition that she wanted these, 
Could act the husband's coat and hat set 

up 



To creak i' the wind and drive the world- 
crows off 
From pecking in her garden. Straw can 

fill 
A ho'e to keep out vermin. Now. at 

last, 
I own heaven's angels round her life 

suffice 
To fight the rats of our society, 
Without this Ronmey : I can see at 

last ; _ 
And here is ended my pretention which 
The most pretended. Over-proud of 

course. 
Even so !-- -but not so stupid . . blind 

. . that I, 
Whom thus the great Taskmaster of the 

world 
Has set to meditate mistaken work, 
My dreary face against a dim blank wall 
Throughout man's natural lifetime, — 

could pretend 
Or wish , . O love, I have loved you ! 

O my soul, 
I have lost you ! — but I swear by all 

yourself. 
And all you might have been to me these 

years 
If that June-morning had not failed my 

hope, — 
I'm not so bestial, to regret that day 
This night,-— this night, which still to 

you is fair ; 
Nay, not so blind, Aurora. I attest 
Those "tars above us which I cannot 

see' . . . 

* You cannot.' . . 

' That if Heaven itself should stoop. 

Remix the lots, and give me another 
chance, 

I'd say, ' No other ! ' — I'd record my 
blank. 

Aurora never should be wife of mine.' 

' Not see the stars .'' ' 

' 'Tis worse still, not to see 

To find your hand, although we're part- 
ing, dear. 

A moment let me hold it ere we part ; 

And understand my last words - these at 
last ! 

I would not have you thinking when I'm- 
gone 

That Romney dared to hanker for your 
love 



AURORA LEIGH. 



In thought or vision, if attainable, 
(Which certainly for me it never was) 
And wished to use it for a dog to-day. 
To help the blind man stumbling. God 

forbid ! 
And now I know he held you in his 

palm, 
And kept you open-eyed to all my faults, 
To save you at last from such a dreary 

end. 
Believe me, dear, that if I had known 

like Him 
What loss was coming on me, I had 

done 
As well in this as He has. — Farewell 

you 
Who are still my light, — farewell ! How 

late it is: 
I know that, now : you've been too pa- 
tient, sweet. 
I will but blow my whistle toward the 

lane. 
And some one comes . . the same who 

brought me here. 
Get in — Good night.' 

' A moment. Heavenly Christ ! 
A moment. Speak once, Romney. 'Tis 

not true. 
I hold your hands, I look into your 

face — 
You see me ? ' 

' No more than the blessed stars. 
Be blessed too, Aurora. Nay, my 

sweet, 
You tremble. Tender-hearted ! Do 

you mind 
Of yore, dear, how you used to cheat old 

John, 
And let the mice out slilyfrom his traps, 
Until he marvelled at the soul in mice 
Which took the cheese and left the 

snare ? The same 
Dear soft heart always ! 'Twas for this 

I grieved 
Howe's letter never reached you. Ah, 

you had heard 
Of illness, — not the issue . . not the 

extent ; 
My life long sick with tossings up and 

down. 
The sudden revulsion in the blazing 

house, 
The strain and struggle both of body 

and soul, [blood : 

Which left fire running in my veins for 



Scarce lacked that thunderbolt of the 
falling beam 

Which nicked me on the forehead as I 
passed 

The gallery-door with a burden. Say 
heaven's bolt, 

Not William Erie's, not Marian's fa- 
ther's, — tramp 

And poacher, whom I found for what he 
was. 

And, eager for her sake to rescue him. 

Forth swept from the open highway of 
the world, 

Road-dust and all,— till like a woodland 
boar 

Most naturally unwilling to be tamed, 

He notched me with his tooth. But not 
a word 

To Marian ! and I do not think, be- 
sides. 

He turned the tilting of the beam my 
way,— 

And if he laughed, as many swear, poor 
wretch. 

Nor he nor I supposed the hurt so deep. 

We'll hope his next laugh may be mer- 
rier, 

In a better cause.' 

' Bhnd, Romney?' 

' Ah, my friend. 

You'll learn to say it in a cheerful voice. 

I, too, at first desponded. To be blind, 

Turned out of nature, mulcted as a man. 

Refused the daily largesse of the sun 

To humble creatures ! When the fever's 
heat 

Dropped from me, as the flame did from 
my house. 

And left me ruined like it, stripped of all 

The hues and shapes of aspectable life, 

A mere bare blind stone in the blaze of 
day, 

A man, upon the outside of the earth. 

As dark as ten feet under, in the grave, — 

Why that seemed hard.' 

' No hope?' 

' A tear ! you weep, 

Divine Aurora ? tears upon my hand ! 

I've seen you weeping for a mouse, a 
bird, — 

But, weep for me, Aurora ? Yes, there's 
hope. 

Not hope of sight, — I could be learned, 
dear, [name 

And tell you in what Greek and Latin 



AURORA LEIGH. 



175 



The visual nwYC is withered to the root, 
Though the outer eyes appear indiffer- 
ent, 
Unspotted in their chrystals. But there's 

hope. 
The spirit, from behind this dethroned 

sense. 
Sees, waits in patience till the walls 

break up 
From which the bas-relief and fresco 

have dropt : 
There's hope. The man here, once so 

arrogant 
And restless, so ambitious, for his part, 
Of dealing with statistically packed 
Disorders, (from a pattern on his nail,) 
And packing such tilings quite another 

way, — 
Is now contented. From his personal 

loss 
He has come to hope for others when 

they lose, 
And wear a gladder faith in what we 

gain . . 
Through bitter experience, compensation 

sweet. 
Like that tear, sweetest. I am quiet 

now. 
As tender surely for the suffering world, 
But quiet, — sitting at the wall to learn. 
Content henceforth to do the thing I 

can : 
For, though as powerless, said I, as a 

stone, 
A stone can still give shelter to a worm. 
And it is worth while being a stone for 

that : 
There's hope, Aurora.' 

' Is there hope for me ? 
For me ?— and is there room beneath the 

stone 
For such a worm? — And if I came and 

said . . 
What all this weeping scarce will let me 

say. 
And yet what women cannot say at nil 
But weeping bitterly . . (the pride keeps 

up. 
Until the lieart breaks under it) . . I 

love, — 
I love you, Romney' . . 

' Silence ! ' he exclaimed. 
' A woman's pity sometimes makes her 

mad. [soul 

A man's distraction must not cheat his 



To take advantage of it. Yet, 'tis hard- 
Farewell, Aurora.' 

' But I love you, sir : 
And when a woman says she loves a 

man, 
The man must hear her, though he 

love her not. 
Which . . hush ! . . he has leave to 

answer in his turn ; 
She will not surely blame him. As for 

me. 
You call it pity, — think I'm generous? 
'Twere somewhat easier, for a woman 

proud 
As I am, and I'm very vilely proud, 
To let it pass as such, and press on you 
Love born of pity,— seeing that excellent 

loves 
Are born so, often, nor the quicklier die, 
And this would set me higher by the 

head 
Than now I stand. No matter : let the 

tnith 
Stand high ; Aurora must be humble : 

no, 
My love's not pity merely. Obviously 
I'm not a generous woman, never was, 
Or else, of old, I had not looked so near 
To weights and measures, grudging you 

the power 
To give, as first I scorned your power to 

judge 
For me, Aurora : I would have no gifts 
Forsooth, but God's, — and I would use 

iheftt too 
According to my pleasure and my choice, 
As He and I were equals,— you below, 
Excluded from that level of'interchange 
Admitting benefaction. You were wrong 
In much ? you said so. I was wrong in 

most. 
Oh, most ! You only though to rescue 

men 
By half-means, half-way, seeing half 

their wants, 
While thinking nothing of your personal 

gain. 
But I who saw the human nature broad 
At both sides, comprehending too the 

soul's. 
And all the high necessities of Art, 
Betrayed the thing I saw, and wronged 

my own life 
For which I pleaded. Passioned to 

exalt 



176 



AURORA LEIGH. 



The artist's instinct in me at the cost 
Of putting down the woman's— I forgot 
No perfect artist is developed here 
From any imperfect woznan. Flower 

from root, 
And spiritual from natural, grade by 

grade 
In all our life. A handful of the earth 
To make God's image ! the despised 

poor earth, 
The healthy odorous earth, — I missed, 

with it. 
The divine Breath that blows the nos- 
trils out 
To ineffable inflatus: ay, the breath 
Which love is. Art is much, but Love is 
more. 

Art, my Art, thou'rt much, but Love 

is more ! 
Art symbolises heaven, but Love is God 
And inakes heaven. I, Aurora, fell from 

mine : 

1 would not be a woman like the rest, 
A simple woman who believes in love 
And owns the right of love because she 

loves. 
And, hearing she's beloved, is satisfied 
With what contents God : I must ana- 
lyse, 
Confront, and question ; just as if a fly 
Refused to warm itself in any sun 
Till such was hi leone : I must fret 
Forsooth, because the month was only 

May • 
Be faithless of the kind of proffered love. 
And captious, lest it miss my dignity. 
And scornful, that my lover sought a 

wife 
To use . . to use I O Romney, O my 

love, 
I am changed since then, changed 

wholly, — for indeed 
If now you'd stoop so low to take my 

l.jve, 
And use it roughly, without stint or 

spare. 
As men use common things with more 

behind, 
(And, in this, ever would be more be- 
hind) 
To any mean and ordinary end, — 
The joy would set me like a star, in 

heaven, 
So Ingh up, I should shine because of 
height 



And not of virtue. Yet in one respect, 
Just one, beloved, I am in no wise 

changed : 
I love you, loved you . . loved you first 

and last, 
And love you on for ever. Now I know 
I loved you always, Romney. She who 

died 
Knew that, and said so; Lady Walde- 

mar 
Knows that ; . . and Marian : I had 

known the same 
Except that I was prouder than I knew. 
And not so honest. Ay, and as I live, 
I should have died so, crushing in my 

hand 
This rose of love, the wasp inside and 

all. 
Ignoring ever to my soul and you 
Both rose and pain, — except for this 

great loss. 
This great despair. — to stand before your 

face 
And know you do not see me where I 

stand. 
You think, perhaps, I am not changed 

from pride. 
And that I chiefly bear to say such 

words 
Because you cannot shame me with your 

eyes .' 

calm, grand eyes, extinguished in a 

storm. 
Blown out like lights o'er melancholy 

seas, 
Though shrieked for by the shipwrecked, 

— O my Dark, 
My Cloud, —to go before me every day 
While I go ever toward the wilderness, — 

1 would that you could see me bare to 

the soul ! 
If this be pity, 'tis so for myself. 
And not for Romney ; he can stand 

alone ; 
A man like him is never overcome : 
No woman like me, counts him pitiable 
While saints applaud him. He mistook 

the world : 
But I mistook my own heart,— and that 

slip 
Was fatal. Romney, — will you leave me 

here? 
So wrong, so proud, so weak, so imcon- 

soled. 
So mere a woman ! — and I love you so, 



AURORA LEIGH. 



«77 



I love vou, Romney.' 

Could I see his face, 
I wept so? Did I drop against his 

breast, 
Or did his arms constrain me ? Were 

my cheeks 
Hot, overflooded, with my tears, or his? 
And which of our two large explosive 

hearts 
So shook me? That, I know not. There 

were words 
That broke in utterance . . melted, in 

the fire ; 
Embrace, that was convulsion, . . then 

a kiss 
As long and silent as the ecstatic night, 
And deep, deep, shuddering breaths, 

which meant beyond 
Whatever could be told by word or kiss. 

But what he said . . I have written day 

by day, 
With somewhat even writing. Did I 

think 
That such a passionate rain would inter- 
cept 
And dash this last page ? What lie said, 

indeed, 
I fain would write it down here like the 

rest 
To keep it in my eyes, as in my ears, 
The heart's sweet scripture, to be read 

at night 
When weary, or at morning when afraid. 
And lean my lieaviest oath on when I 

swear 
That when all's done, all tried, all count- 
ed here. 
All great arts, and all good philosophies. 
This love just puts its hand out in a 

dream. 
And straight outstretches all things. 

What he said, 
I fain would write. But if an angel spoke 
In thunder, should we, haply know much 

more 
Than that it thundered? If a cloud 

came down 
And wrapt us wholly, could we draw its 

shape. 
As if on the outside and not overcome ? 
And so he spake. His breath against 

my face 
Confused his words, yet made them more 

intense, — 



As when the sudden finger of the wind 
Will wipe a row of single city-lamps 
To a pure white line of flame, more 

luminous 
Because of obliteration ; more intense. 
The intimate presence carrying in itself 
Complete communication, as with souls 
Who, having put the body off, perceive 
Through simply being. I'hus, 'twas 

granted me 
To know he loved me to the depth and 

height 
Of such large natures, ever competent 
With grand horizons by the sea or land. 
To love's grand sunrise. Small spheres 

hold small fires : 
But he loved largely, as a man can love 
Who, baffled in his love, dares live his 

life. 
Accept the ends which God loves for 

his own, 
And lift a constant aspect. 

From the day 
I brought to England my poor searching 

face 
(An orphan even of my father's grave) 
He had loved me, watched me, watched 

his soul in mine. 
Which in me grew and heightened into 

love. 
For he, a boy still, had been told the 

tale 
Of how a fairy bride from Italy, 
With smells of oleanders in her hair, 
Was coming through the vines to touch 

his hand ; 
Whereat the blood t)f boyhood on the 

palm 
Made sudden heats. And when at last I 

came. 
And lived before him, lived, and rarely 

smiled, 
He smiled and loved me for the thing I 

was. 
As every child will love the year's first 

flower, 
(Not certainly the fairest of the year. 
But, in which, the complete year seems 

to blow) 
The poor sad snowdrop, — growing be- 
tween drifts. 
Mysterious medium 'twixt the plant and 

■ frost. 
So faint with winter while so quick with 

spring, 



,78 



AURORA LEIGH. 



So doubtful if to thaw Itself away 
With that snow near it. Not that Rom- 

ney Leigh 
Had loved me coldly. If I thought so 

once, 
It was as if I had held nny hand in fire 
And shook for cold. But now I under- 
stood 
For ever, that the very fire and heat 
Of troubling passion in him burned him 

clear, 
And shaped to dubious order, word and 

act. 
That, just because he loved me over all, 
All wealth, all lands, all social privilege, 
To which chance made him unexpected 

heir, 
And, just because on all these lesser 

gifts, 
Constrained by conscience and the sense 

of wrong 
He had stamped with steady hand God's 

arrow-mark 
Of dedication to the human need, 
He thought it should be so too, with his 

love : 
He, passionately loving, would bring 

down 
His love, his life, his best, (because the 

best) 
His bride of dreams, who walked so still 

and high 
Through flowery poems as through 

meadow-grass, 
The dust of golden lilies on her feet, 
That she should walk beside him on the 

rocks 
In all that clang and hewing out of men. 
And help the work of help which was 

his life. 
And prove he kept back nothing, — not 

his soul. 
And when I failed him,— for I failed 

him, I — 
And when it seemed he had missed my 

love, — he thought, 
'Aurora makes room for a working- 
noon ; ' 
And so, self-girded with torn strips of 

hope. 
Took up his life as if it were for death, 
(Just capable of one heroic aim.) 
And threw it in the thickest of the world, 
At which men laughed as if he had 
drowned a <?og. 



No wonder, — since Aurora failed him ■ 

first ! 
The morning and the evening made his 

day. 
But oh, the night ! oh, bitter-sweet ! oh, 

sweet ! 
O dark, O moon and stars, O ecstasy 
Of darkness ! O great mystery of love. 
In which absorbed, loss, anguish, treas- -, 

on's self 
Enlarges rapture,— as a pebble dropt 
In some full wine-cup over-brims the 

wine ! 
While we two sate together, leaned that 

night 
So close, my very garments crept and 

thrilled 
With strange electric life ; and both my 

cheeks 
Grew red, then pale, with touches from 

my hair 
In which his breath was ; while the gold- 
en moon 
Was hung before our faces as the badge 
Of some sublime inherited despair, 
Since ever to be seen by only one,— 
A voice said, low and rapid as a sigh, 
Yet breaking, I felt conscious, from a 

smile, 
'Thank God, who made me blind, to 

make me see ! 
Shine on, Aurora, dearest light of souls, 
Which rul'st for evermore both day and 

night ! 
I am happy.' 

I flung closer to his breast. 
As sword that, after battle, flings to 

sheath ; 
And, in that hurtle of united souls. 
The mystic motions which in common 

moods 
Are shut beyond our sense, broke in on 

us, 
And, as we sate, we felt the old earth 

spin, 
And all the starry turbulence of worlds 
Swing round us in their audient circles, 

till 
If that same golden moon were overhead 
Or if beneath our feet, we did nor know. 

And then calm, equal, smooth with 

weights of joy 
His voice rose, as some chief musician's 

£ong 



AURORA LEIGH. 



179 



Amid the old Jewish temple's Selah- 

pause, 
And bade me mark how we two met at 

last 
Upon this inoon-bathed promontory of 

earth, 
To give up much on each side, then take 

all. 

* Beloved,' it sang, ' we must be here to 

work ; 

And men who work can only work for 
men. 

And, not to work in vain, must compre- 
hend 

Humanity, and so work humanly. 

And raise men's bodies still by raising 
souls. 

As God did first.' 

' But stand upon the earth,' 

I said, 'to raise them, — (this is human 
too ; 

There's nothing high which has not first 
been low, 

My humbleness, said One, has made me 
great !) 

As'God did last.' 

' And work all silently, 

And simply,' he returned, ' as God does 
all ; 

Distort our nature never for our work, 

Nor count our right hands stronger for 
being hoofs. 

The man most man, with tenderest hu- 
man hands. 

Works best for men, — as God in Naza- 
reth.' 

He paused upon the word, and then re- 
sumed : 

* Fewer programmes, we who have no 

prescience. 
Fewer systems, we who are held and do 

not hold. 
Less mapping out of masses to be saved, 
By nations or by sexes. Fourier's void. 
And Comte absurd,— and Cabet, puerile. 
Subsists no law of life outside of life, 
No perfect manners, without Christian 

souls. 
The Christ himself had been no Law- 
giver, 
Unless he had given the life, too, with 
the law.' 

I echoed thoughtfully — 'The man, most 
man, 



Works best for men : and, if mcjst man 

indeed. 
He gets his manhood plainest from his 

soul : 
While obviously this stringent soul itself 
Obeys our old law of development ; 
The Spirit ever witnessing in ours, 
And Love, the soul of soul, within the 

soul. 
Evolving it sublimely. First, God's 

love.' 

' And next,' he smiled, ' llie love of 
wedded souls. 

Which still presents that mystery's coun- 
terpart. 

Sweet shadow-rose, upon the water of 
life, 

Of such a mystic substance, Sharon 
gave 

A name to ! human, vital, fructuous rose. 

Whose calyx holds the multitude of 
leaves. 

Loves filial, loves fraternal, neighbour- 
loves, 

And civic, . . all fair petals, all good 
scents. 

All reddened, sweetened from one central 
Heart ! ' 

' Alas,' I cried, ' it was not long ago, 
You swore this very social rose smelt 



' Alas,' he answered, ' is it a rose at all ? 

The filial's thankless, the fraternal's 
hard. 

The rest is lost. I do but stand and 
think. 

Across the waters of a troubled life 

The Flower of Heaven so vainly over- 
hangs. 

What perfect counterpart would be in 
sight. 

If tanks were clearer. Let us clean the 
tubes. 

And wait for rains. O poet, O my love, 

Since 1 was too ambitious in my deed. 

And thought to distance all men in suc- 
cess, 

Till God came on me, marked the place, 
and said, 

' Ill-doer, henceforth keep within this 
line, 

Attempting less than- others,'— and I 
stand 



i8o 



AURORA LEIGH. 



And work among Christ's little ones, 

content,— 
Come thou, my compensation, my dear 

sight, . . , . , 

My mornmg-star, my mornmg ! rise and 

shine. 
And touch my hills with radiance not 

their own. 
Shine out for two, Aurora, and fulfil 
My falling-short that must be ! work for 

two. 
As I, though thus restrained, for two, 

shall love ! 
Gaze on, with inscient vision toward the 

sun, 
And, from his visceral heat, pluck out 

the roots 
Of light beyond him. Art's a service, — 

mark : 
A silver key is given to thy clasp. 
And thou shalt stand unwearied, night 

and day, 
And fix it in the hard, slow-turning wards, 
And open, so, that intermediate door 
Betwixt the different planes of sensuous 

form 
And form insensuous, that inferior men 
May learn to feel on still through these 

to those. 
And bless thy ministration. The world 

waits 
For lielp. Beloved, let iis love so well, 
Our work shall still be better for our 

love. 
And still our love be sweeter for our 

work. 
And both commended, for the sake of 

each. 
By all true workers and true lovers born. 
Now press thy clarion on thy woman's 

(Love's holy kiss shall still keep conse- 
crate) 

And breathe the fine keen breath along 
the brass, 

And blow all class-walls level as Jeri- 
cho's 

Past Jordan ; crying from the top of 
souls, 

To souls, that here assembled on earth's 
flats, 



To get them to some purer eminence 
Than any hitherto beheld for clouds ! 
What height we know not, — but the way 

we know. 
And how by mounting ever, we attain, 
And so climb on. It is the hour for 

souls ; 
That bodies, leavened by the will and 

love. 
Be lightened to redemption. The world's 

old ; 
But the old world waits the time to be 

renewed: 
Toward which, new hearts in individual 

growth 
Must quicken, and increase to multitude 
In new dynasties of the race of men,— 
Developed whence, shall grow spon- 
taneously 
New churches, new ceconomies, new 

laws 
Admitting freedom, new societies 
Excluding falsehood.' He shall make 

all new.' 

My Romney ! — Lifting up my hand in 

his, 
As vi'heeled by Seeing spirits toward the 

east, 
He turned instinctively, — where, faint 

and far. 
Along the tingling desert of th . sky. 
Beyond the circle of the conscious hills, 
Were laid in jasper-stone as clear as 

glass 
The first foundations of that new, near 

Day 
Which should be builded out of heaven 

to God. 
He stood a moment with erected brows, 
In silence, as a creature might, who 

gazed: 
Stood calm, and fed his blind, majestic 

eyes 
Upon the thought of perfect noon. And 

when 
I saw his soul saw, — ' Jasper first,' I 

said, 
' And second, sapphire ; third, chalce- 
dony ; 
The rest in order, . . last, an amethyst.' 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 



FERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 

Promktheus. Heph^.stus. 

OcKANiis. lo, dauglitei-of Inachus. 

Hermes. bTKENora and Pokck. 

Chokiis of Ocean Nymphs. 

Scene.— Stke.voth and Force, Heph^kstus 

u}id Prometheus at the Hocks. 

Strength. 
We reach the utmost limit of the earth. 
The Scythian track, the desert without 

man. 
And now, Hephaestus, thou must needs 

fulfil 
The mandate of our father, and with 

links 
Indissoluble of adamantine chains. 
Fasten against this beetling precipice 
This guilty god ! Because he filched 

away 
Thine own bright (lower, the glory cf 

plastic fire. 
And gifted mortals with it, — such a sia 
It doth behove he expiate to the gods. 
Learning to accept the empery of Zeus, 
And leave off his old trick of loving man. 
HcphcEstus. O Strength and Force, — 

for you, or Zeus's will 
Presents a deed for doing. — No more ! 

—but /, 
I lack your daring, up this storm-rent 

chasm 
To fix with violent hands a kindred god, 
Hovvbeit necessity compels me so 
That I must dare it, — and our Zeus com- 
mands 
With a most inevitable word. Ho, thou ! 
High-thoughted son of Themis who is 

sage. 
Thee loth, I loth must rivet fast in 

chains 
Against this rocky height unclomb by 

man. 
Where never human voice nor face shall 

find 
Out thee who lov'st them ! — and thy 

beauty's flower. 



Scorched in the sun's clear heat, shall 
fade away. 

Night shall come up with garniture of 
stars 

To comfort thee wit'n shadow, and the 
sun 

Disperse with retrickt beams the morn- 
ing frosts ; 

And through all changes, sense of pres- 
ent woe 

Shall vex thee sore, because with none 
of them 

There comes a hand to free. Such fruit 
is plucked 

From love of man ! — for in that thou, a 
god. 

Didst brave the wrath of gods and give 
away 

Undue respect to mortals ; for that 
crime 

Thou art adjudged to guard this joyless 
rock, 

Erect, imslumbering, bending not the 
knee, 

And many a cry and unavailing moan 

'lb utter on the air ! For Zeus is stern. 

And new-made kings are cruel. 

Strength. Be it so. 

Why loiter in vain pity ? Why not hate 

A god the gods hate ? — one too wh.o be- 
trayed 

Thy glory unto men ? 

Hephcestus. An awful thing 

Is kinship joined to friendship. 

Strength. Grant it be ; 

Is disobedience to the Father's word 

A possible thing ? Dost quail not more 
for that ? 
Hephcestus. Thou, at least, art a 

stern one ! ever bold ! 
Strength. Why, if I wept, it were 
no remedy. 

And do not thou spend labor oa the air 

To bootless uses. 

Hephcestus. Cursed handicraft ! 

I curse and hate thee, O my craft ! 
Strength. Why hate 



|82 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 



Thy craft most plainly innocent of all 
These pending ills? 

Hephcpstus. I wouldsome other hand 
Were here to work it ! 

St}-ength. All work hath its pain, 

Except to rule the gods. There is none 

free 
Except King Zens. 

Hephcestus. I know it very well : 

I argue not against it. 

Strength. Why not, then, 

Hake haste and lock the fetters over 

HIM, 

Lest Zeus behold thee lagging ? 

Hephcestus. Here be chains. 

Zeus may behold these. 

Strength. Seize him, — strike amain ! 
Strike with the hammer on each side his 

han ds — 
Rivet him to the rock. 

Hephcestus. The work is done, 

And thoroughly done. 

Strength. Still faster grapple him, — 
Wedge him in deeper, — leave no inch 

to stir ! 
He's terrible for finding a waj out 
From the irremediable. 

HephiFStus. Here's an arm, at least,. 
Grappled past freeing. 

Strength. Now, then, buckle me 
The other securely. Let this wise one 

learn 
He's duller than our Zeus. 

Hephcestus. Oh, none but he 

Accuse me justly! 

Strength. Now, straight through the 
chest, 
Take him and bite him with the clench- 
ing tooth 
Of the adamantine wedge, and rivet 
him. 
Hephcestus. Alas. Prometheus ! what 
thou sufferest here 
I sorrow over. 

Strength. Dost thou flinch again, 
And breathe groans for the enemies of 

Zeus ? 
Beware lest thine own pity find thee 
out. 
Hephcestus. Thou dost behold a spec- 
tacle that turns 
The sight o' the eyes to pity. 

Strength. I behold 
A sinner suffer his sin's penalty. 



But lash the thongs about his sides. 

Hephcestus. So much, 

I must do. Urge no farther than I must. 

Strength. Ay, but I ivill urge ! — 

and, with .shout on shout. 
Will hound thee at this quarry ! Get 

thee down 
And ring amain the iron round his legs ! 
Hephcestus. That work was not long 

doing. 
Strength. Heavily now 

Let fall the strokes upon the perforant 

gyves! 
For He who rates the work has a heavy 

hand. 
Hephcestus. Thy speech is .savage as 

thy shape. 
Strength. Be thou 

Gentle and tender ! but revile not me 
For the firm will and the untruckling 

hate. 
Hephcestus. Let us go ! He is netted 

round with chains. 
Strength. Here, now, taunt on I and 

having spoiled the gods 
Of honors, crown withal thy mortal men 
Who live a whole day out ! Why how 

could they 
Draw off from thee one single of thy 

griefs ? 
Methinks the Demons gave thee a wrong 

name, 
Proinethetis, which means Providence — 

because 
Thou dost thyself need providence to 

see 
Thy roll and ruin from the top of doom. 
Prometheus alone. O holy /Ether, 

and swift winged Winds, 
And River-wells, and laughter innumer- 

ous 
Of yon Sea- waves ! Earth, mother of 

us all. 
And all-viewing cyclic Sun, I cry on 

you ! — 
Behold me a god, what I endure frqm 

gods! 

Behold with throe on throe. 

How, wasted by this woe, 
I wrestle down the myriad years of 

Time ! 
Behold, how fast around me, 
The new King of the happy ones sub- 
lime 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 



183 



Has flung the chain he forged, has 
shamed and bound me ! 

Woe, woe ! to day's woe and the com- 
ing morrow's, 

I cover with one groan ! And where is 
found me 
A limit to these sorrows ? 

And yet what word do I say ? I have 
foreknown 

Clearly all things that should be — noth- 
ing done 

Comes sudden to my soul — and I must 
bear 

What is ordained with patience, being 
aware 

Necessity doth front the universe 

With an invincible gesture. Yet this 
curse 

Which strikes me now, I find it hard to 
brave 

In silence or in speech. Because I gave 

Honor to mortals, I have yoked my soal 

To this compelling fate ! Because I 
stole 

The secret fount of fire, whose bubbles 
went 

Over the ferule's brim, and manward 
sent 

Art's mighty means and perfect rudi- 
ment, 

That sin I expiate in this agony ; 

Hung here in fetters, 'neath the blanch- 
ing sky ! 
Ah, ah me ! what a sound. 

What a fragrance sweeps up from a 
pinion unseen 

Of a god, or a mortal, or nature between. 

Sweeping up to this rock where the earth 
has her bound. 

To have sight of my pangs, — or some 
guerdon obtain — 

Lo ! a god in the anguish, a god in the 
chain ! 
The god, Zeus hateth sore 
And his gods hate again. 

As many as tread on his glorified floor, 

Because I loved mortals too much ever- 
more ! 

Alas me ! what a murmur and motion I 
hear. 
As of birds flying near ! 
And the air undersings 
The light stroke of their wings- 



And all life that approaches I wait for 
in fear. 

Chorus of Sea Nymphs, zsi Strophe. 
Fear nothing ! our troop 
Floats lovingly up 
With a quick-oaring stroke 
Of wings steered to the rock ; 
Having softened the soul of our father 

below ! 
For the gales of swift-bearing have sent 

me a sound. 
And the clank of the iron, the malleted 
blow. 
Smote down the profound 
Of my caverns of old. 
And struck the red light in a blush from 

my brow, — 
Till I sprang up unsandalled, in haste to 

behold. 
And rushed forth on my chariot of 
wings manifold. 
PrometJiejis. Alas me ! — alas me \ 
Ye off'spring of Tethys who bore at her 

breast 
Many children ; and eke of Oceanus, — 

he. 
Coiling still around earth with perpetual 
unrest ; 

Behold me and see 
How transfixed with the fang 
Of a fetter I hang 
On the high jutting rocks of this fissure, 

and keep 
An uncoveted watch o'er the world and 
the deep. 

Chortis, 1st AntistropJie. 

I behold thee, Prometheus— yet now, 
yet now, 

A terrible cloud whose rain is tears 

Sweeps over mine eyes that witness how 
Thy body appears 

Hung awaste on the rocks by infrangi- 
ble chains ! 

For new is the hand and the rudder that 
steers 

The ship of Olympus through surge and 
wind — 

And of old things passed, no track is 
behind. 

Protfietheus. Under earth, under Hade?, 



i84 



PR OME THE US B O UND. 



Where the home of the shade is. 
All into the deep, deep Tartarus, 

I would he had hurled me adown ! 
I would he had plunged me, fastened 

thus 
In the knotted chain with the savage 

clang. 
All into the dark, where there should be 

none, 
Neither god nor another, to laugh and 

see ! 
But now the winds sing through and 

shake 
The hurtling chains wherein I hang — 
And I, in my naked sorrows, make 
Much mirth for my enemy. 

Chorus, nd Strophe. 

Nay ! who of the gods hath a heart so 
stern 

As to use thy woe for a mock and 
mirth ? 
Who would not turn more mild to learn 

Thy sorrows ? who of the heaven and 
earth, 

Save Zeus ? But he 

Right wrathfully 
Bears on his sceptral soul unbent, 
And rules thereby the heavenly seed ; 
Nor will he pause till he content 
His thirsty heart in a finished deed ; 
Or till Another shall appear. 
To win by fraud, to seize by fear 
The hard-to-be-captured government. 

Prometheus. Yet even of w<? he shall 
have need. 
That monarch of the blessed seed ; 
Of me, of me, who now am cursed 

By his fetters dire, — 
To ring my secret out withal 

And learn by whom his sceptre shall 
. Be filched from him — as was, at first. 
His heavenly fire ! 
But he never shall enchant me 

With his honey-lipped persuasion ; 
Never, never shall he daunt me 

With the oath and threat of passion. 
Into speaking as they want me, 
Till he loose this savage chain, 

And accept the expiation 
Of my sorrow, in his pain. 



Chorus, zd Antistrophe. 

Thou art, sooth, a brave god. 

And, for all thou hast borne 
From the the stroke of the rod. 

Nought relaxest from scorn ! 
But .thou speakest imto me 

Too free and unworn — 
And a terror strikes through me 

And festers my soul 

And I fear, in the roll 
Of the storm, for thy fate 

In the ship far from .shore — 
Since the son of Satuinius is hard in his 
hate 

And unmoved in his heart evermore. 



Prometheus. I know that Zeus is 

stern ! 
I know he metes his justice by his will ! 
And yet his soul shall learn 
More softne.ss when once broken by this 

ill — 
And curbing his unconquerable vaunt 
He shall rush on in fear to meet with 

me 
Who rush to meet with him in agony, 
To issues of harmonious covenant. 

Chorus. Remove the veil from all 

things, and relate 
The story to us ! — of what crime accu-sed, 
Zeus smites thee with dishonorable 

pangs. ' 
Speak ! if to teach us do not grieve thy- 
self. 
Prometheus. The utterance of these 

things is torture to me. 
But so, too, is their silence ! each way 

lies 
Woe strong as fate ! 

When gods began with wrath. 
And war rose up between their starry 

brows. 
Some choosing to cast Chronos from his 

throne 
That Zeus might king it there ; and 

some in haste 
With opposite oaths that they would 

have no Zeus 
To rule the gods forever, — I, who 

brought 
The counsel I thought meetest, co\iM not 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 



ihe Titans, children of the Heaven and 

Earth. 
What time disdaining in their rugged 

souls 
My subtle machinations, they assumed 
It was an easy thing for force to take 
The mastery of fate. My mother, then. 
Who is called not only Themis but Earth 

too, 
(Her single beauty joys in many names,) 
Did teach me with reiterant prophecy 
What future should be, — and how con- 
quering gods 
Should not prevail by strength and vio- 
lence. 
But by guile only. When I told them 

so 
They would not deign to contemplate 

the truth 
On all sides round ; whereat I deemed 

it best 
To lead my willing mother upwardly, 
And set my Themis face to face with 

Zeus 
As willing to receive her ! Tartarus, 
With its abysmal cloister of the Dark, 
Because I gave that counsel, covers up 
The antique Chronos and his siding 

hosU ; 
And, by that counsel helped, the king of 

gods 
Hath recompensed me with these bitter 

pangs ! 
For kingship wears a cancer at the 

heart, — 
Distrust in friendship. Do j'e also ask. 
What crime it is for which he tortures 

me — 
That shall be clear before you. When 

at first 
He filled his father's throne, he instantly 
Madi various gifts of glory to the gods, 
And dealt the Empire out. Alone of 

men. 
Of miserable men he took no count. 
But yearned to sweep their track off 

from the world. 
And plant a newer race there ! Not a 

god 
Resisted such desire except myself! 
/ dared it ! / drew mortals back to 

light. 
From meditated ruin deep as hell, — 



For which wrong I am bent down in 

these pangs 
Dreadful to suffer, mournful to behold, — 
And I, who pitied man, am thought 

myself 
Unworthy of pity, — while I render out 
Deep rhythms of anguish 'neath the 

harping hand 
That strikes me thus ! — a sight to shame 
your Zeus 1 
Chorus. Hard as thy chains, and 
cold as all these rocks. 
Is he, Prometheus, who witliholds his 

heart 
From joining in thy woe. I yearned 

before 
To fly this sight — and, now I gaze on it, 
I sicken inwards. 

PrometJieiis. To my friends, indeed, 
I must be a sad sight. 

Chorus. And didst thou sin 

No more than so ? 

Projtietheus. I did restrain besides 
My mortals from premeditating deatli. 
Chorus. How didst thou medicine 

the plague-fear of death ? 
Prometheus. I set blind Hopes to 

inhabit in their house. 
Chorus. By that gift, thou didst help 

thy mortals well. 

Projneiheus. I gave them also, — fire. 

Chorus. And have they now. 

Those creatures of a day, the red-eyed 

fire? 

Prometheus. They have ! and shr.'.I 

learn by it many arts. 
Chorus. And, truly, for such sins 
Zeus tortures thee. 
And will remit no anguish ? Is there 

set 
No limit before thee to thine agony ? 
Prometheus. No other! only what 

seems good to him. 
Chorus. And how will it seem good ? 
what hope remains ? 
Seest thou not that thou hast sinned ? 

But that thou hast sinned 
It glads me not to speak of, and grieves 

thee — 
Then let it pass from both ! and seek 

thyself 
Some outlet from distress. 

Prometheus. It is in truth 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 



An easy tiling to stand aloof from pain 

And lavish exhortation and advice 

Oil one vexed sorely by it. I have 

known 
All in prevision ! By my choice, my 

choice, 
I freely sinned — I will confess my sin — 
And helping mortals, found mine own 

despair ! 
I did not think indeed that I should pine 
Beneath such pangs against such skiey 

rocks. 
Doomed to this drear hill and no neigh- 
boring 
Of any life ! — but mourn not jj/^ for griefs 
I bear to-day ! — hear rather, dropping 

down 
To the plain, how other woes creep on 

to me, 
And learn the consummation of my 

doom. 
Beseech you, nymphs, beseech yo\i ! — 

grieve for me 
V/honow am grieving ! — for grief walks 

the earth. 
And sits down at the foot of each by 

turns. 
Chorus. We hear the deep clash of 

thy words, 

Prometheus, and obey ! 
And I spring with a rapid foot away 
From the rushing car and the holy air. 

The track of birds — 
And I drop to the rugged ground and 

there 
Await the tale of thy despair 

Enter Oce.a.nus. 

Oceanus. I reach the bourne of my 
weary road, 
Where I may see and answer thee, 
Prometheus, in thine agony ! 
On the back of the quick-wmged bird 
Iglode, 

And I bridled him in 
With the will of a god. 
Behold thy sorrow aches in me. 

Constrained by the force of kin. 
Nay, though that tie were all undone. 
For the life of none beneath the sun, 
Would I seek a larger benison 

Th.in I seek for thine ! 
And thou slia'.t le.^rn my words are 
truth, — 



That no fair parlance of the mouth 

Grows falsely out of mine ! 
Now give me a deed to prove my 

faith, — 
For no faster friend is named in breath 

Than I, Oceanus, am thine. 

Prometheus. Ha ! what has brought 

thee ? Hast thou also come 
To look upon my woe ? How hast thou 

dared 
To leave the depths called after thee, 

the caves 
Self-hewn and self-roofed with sponta- 
neous rock. 
To visit Earth, the mother of my chain ? 
Hast come indeed to view my doom 

and mourn 
That I should sorrow thus ? Gaze on, 

and see 
How I, the fast friend of your Zeus, — • 

how I 
The erector of the empire in his hand, — 
Am bent beneath that hand in this 

despair ! 
Oceanus. Prometheus, I behold, — 

and I would fain 
Exhort thee, though already subtle 

enough, 
To a better wisdom. Titan, know thy- 
self. 
And take new softness to thy manners, 

since 
A new king rules the gods. If words 

like these. 
Harsh words and trenchant, thou wilt 

fling abroad, 
Zeus haply, though he sit so far and 

high. 
May hear thee do it ; and, so, this wrath 

of his 
Which now affects thee fiercely, shall 

appear 
A mere child's sport at vengeance ! 

Wretched god. 
Rather dismiss the passion which thou 

hast. 
And seek a change from grief. Perhaps 

I seem 
To address thee with old saws and out- 
worn sense, — 
Yet such a curse, Prometheus, surely 

waits 
On lips that speak too proudly ! — thou, 

meantime. 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 



187 



Art none the meeker, nor dost yield 

a jot 
To evil circumstance, preparing still 
To swell the account of grief, with other 

griefs 
Than what are borne ! Beseech thee, 

use me then 
For counsel ! Do not spurn against the 

pricks, — 
Seeing that who reigns, reigns by cruelty 
Instead of right. And now, I go from 

hence. 
And will endeavor if a power of mine 
Can break thy fetters through. For 

thee, — be calm. 
And smooth thy words from passion. 

Know est thou not 
Of perfect knowledge, thou who know- 

est too much. 
That where the tongue wags, ruin never 

lags ? 
Prometheus. T gratulate thee who 

hast shared and dared 
All things with me, except their 

penalty ! 
Enough so ! leave these thoughts ! 1 1 

cannot be 
That thou shouldst move Him. He 

may 7iot be moved ! 
And thou, beware of sorrow on this 

road. 
Oceanus. Ay ! ever wiser for an- 
other's use 
Than thine! the event, and not the 

prophecy. 
Attests it to me. Yet where now I rusli. 
Thy wisdom hath no power tO drag me 

back ; 
Because I glory — glory, to go hence 
And win for thee deliverance from thy 

pangs. 
As a free gift from Zeus. 

Prometheus. Why there, again, 

I give thee gratulation and applause ! 
Thou lackest no good-will. But, as for 

deeds. 
Do nought ! 'twere all done vainly ! 

helping nought. 
Whatever thou wouldst do. liather 

take rest, 
And keep thyself from evil. If I 

grieve, 
I do not therefore wish to multiply 
The griefs of others. Verily, not so ! 



For still my brother's doom doth ve.x my 

soul, — 
My brother Adas, standing in the west. 
Shouldering the column of the heaven 

and earth, 
A difficult burden ! I have ako seen. 
And pitied as I saw, the earth-born one. 
The inhabitant of old Cilician caves. 
The great war-monster of the hundred 

heads, 
(All taken and bowed beneath the 

violent Hand,) 
TyphoB the fierce, who did resist the 

gods. 
And, hissing slaughter from his dreadful 

jaws. 
Flash out ferocious glory from his eyes. 
As if to storm the throne of Zeus ! 

Whereat, 
The sleepless arrow of Zeus flew straight 

at him, — 
The headlong bolt of thunder breathing 

flame. 
And struck him downward from his 

eminence 
Of exultation ! Through the very soul. 
It struck him, and his strength was 

withered up 
To ashes, thunder-blasted. Now, he lies 
A helpless trunk supinely, at full length 
Beside the strait of ocean, spurred into 
By roots of Etna, — high upon whose 

tops 
Hephaestus sits and strikes the flashing 

ore. 
From thence the rivers of fire shall burst 

away 
Hereafter, and devour with savage jaws 
The equal plains of fruitful Sicily ! 
Such passion he shall boil back in hot 

darts 
Of an insatiate fury and sough of flame. 
Fallen Typhon ; — howsoever struck and 

charred 
By Zeus's bolted thunder ! But for thee. 
Thou art not so unlearned as to need 
My teaching — let thy knowledge save 

thyself. 
/ quaff the full cup of a present doom. 
And wait till Zeus hath quenched his 

will in wrath. 
Oceamts. Prometheus, art thou ignor- 
ant of this, — 
That words do medicine anrjer? 



1 83 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 



Prometheus. If the word 

With seasonable softness touch the soul, 
And, where the parts are ulcerous, sear 

them not 
By any rudeness. 

Oceamis. What a noble aim 

To dare as nobly— is there harm in that ? 
Dost thou discern it ? Teach me. 

Prometheus. I discern 

Vain aspiration, — unresultive work. 
Oceafizis. Then suffer me to bear the 
brunt of this ! 
Since it is profitable that one who is wise 
Should seem not wise at all. 

Prometheus. And such would seem 
INIy very crime. 

Oceantis. In truth thine argument 
Sends me back home. 
_^ P7-ometheus. Lest any lament for me 
"should cast thee down to hate. 

Oceanus. The hate of Him, 

Who sits a new king on the absolute 
throne ? 
Projnetheus. Beware of him,— lest 

thine heart grieve by him. 
Ocea7tus. Thy doom, Prometheu-, 

be my teacher ! 
Prometheus. Go 1 

Depart — beware ! — and keep the mind 
thou hast. 
Oeeantis. Thy words drive after, as 
I rush before ! 
Lo! my four-footed Bird sweeps smooth 

and wide 
The flats of air with balanced pinions, 

glad 
To bend his knee at home in the ocean- 
stall. [Exit Oceanus. 
Chorics, rst Strophe. 
I moan thy fate, I moan for thee, 

Prometheus ! From my eyes too ten- 
der. 
Drop after drop incessantly. 

The tears of my heart's pity render. 
My cheeks wet from their fountains 
free, — 
Because that Zeus, the stern and cold, 
Whose law is taken from his breast, 
Uplifts his sceptre manifest 
Over the gods of old. 

ist Antistrophe. 
All the land is moaning 
With a murmured plaint to-day ! 



All the mortal nations. 

Having habitations 
Near the holy Asia, 

Are a dirge entoning 
For thine honor and thy brother's. 
Once majestic beyond others 

In the old belief,— 
Now are groaning in the groaning 

Of thy deep- voiced grief. 

■2.d Strophe. 
Mourn the maids inhabitant 

Of the Colchian land. 
Who with white, calm bosoms, stand 

In the battle's roar — 
Mourn the Scythian tribes that haunt 
The verge of earth. Maeotis' shore — 

■id Antistrophe, 
Yea ! Arabia's battle crown. 
And dwellers in the beetling town 
Mount Caucasus sublimely nears, — 
An iron squadron, thundering down 
With the sharp-prowed spears. 

But one other before, have I seen to 
remain. 
By invincible pain 
Bound and vanquished, — one Titan ! — 

'twas Atlas who bears. 
In a curse from the gods, by that strength 
of his own 
Which he evermore wears. 
The weight of the heaven on his shoul- 
der alone. 
While he .sighs up the stars ! 
And the tides of the ocean wail bursting 
their bars, — 
Murmurs still the profound, — 
And black Hades roars up through the 

chasm of the ground, — 
And the fountains of pure-running riv- 
ers moan low 
In a pathos of woe. 

Prometheus. Beseech, you, think not 

1 am silent thus 
Through pride or scorn ! I only gnaw 

my heart 
With meditation, seeing myself so 

wronged. 
For so — their honors to these new-made 

gods. 



PR OME THE US B O UND. 



,89 



What other gave but I, — and dealt them 

out 
With distribution ? Ay — but here I am 

dumb ; 
For here, 1 should repeat your know- 
ledge to you. 
If I spake aught. List rather to the 

deeds 
I did for mortals, — how, being fooLs be- 
fore, 
I made them wise and true in aim of 

soul. 
And let me tell you — not as taunting 

men, 
But teaching you the intention of my 

gifts ; 
How, first beholding, they beheld in 

vain. 
And hearing, heard not, but like shapes 

in dreams, 
Mixed all things wildly down the tedious 

time, 
Nor knew to build a house against the 

sun 
With wicketed sides, nor any woodcraft 

knew. 
But lived, like silly ants, beneath the 

ground 
In hollow cave.s unsunned. There, came 

to them 
No stedfast sign of winter, nor of spring 
Flower-perfumed, nor of summer full of 

fruit. 
But blindly and lawlessly they did all 

things. 
Until I taught them how the stars do 

rise 
And set in mystery ; and devised for 

them 
Number, the inducer of philosophies. 
The synthesis of Letters, and, beside. 
The artificer of all things. Memory, 
That sweet Muse-mother. I was first 

to yoke 
The servile beasts in couples, carrying 
An heirdom of man's burdens on their 

backs ! 
I joined the chariots, steeds, that love 

the bit 
They champ at — the chief pomp of gold- 
en ease. 
And none but I, originated ships. 
The seaman's chariots, wandering on the 

brine 



With linen wings ! And I — oh, misera- 
ble !- 

Who did devise for mortals all these arts. 

Have no device left now to save myself 

From the woe I suffer. 

Chorus. Most unseemly woe 

Thou sufferest and dost stagger from 
the sense. 

Bewildered 1 Like a bad leech falling 
sick 

Thou art faint at soul, and canst not find 
the drugs 

Required to save thyself. 

Prometheus. Harken the rest,' 

And marvel further — what more arts 
and means 

I did invent, — this, greatest ! — if a man 

Fell sick, there was no cure, nor escu- 
lent 

Nor chrism nor liquid, but for lack of 
drugs 

Men pined and wasted, till I showed 
them all 

Those mixtures of emollient remedies 

Whereby they might be rescued from 
disease. 

I fixed the various rules of mantic art. 

Discerned the vision from the common 
dream. 

Instructed them in vocal auguries 

Hard to interpret, and defined as plain 

The wayside omens, — flights of crook- 
clawed birds, — 

Showed which are, by their nature, for- 
tunate. 

And which not so, and what the food of 
each. 

And what the hates, affections, social 
needs, 

Of all to one another, — taught what sign 

Of visceral lightness, coloured to ashade. 

May charm the genial gods, and what 
fair spots 

Commend the lung and liver. Burn- 
ing so 

The limbs encased in fat, and the long 
chine, 

I led my mortals on to an art abstruse. 

And cleared their eyes to the image in 
the fire. 

Erst filmed in dark. Enough said now 
of this. 

For the other helps of man hid under- 
ground, 



190 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 



The iron and tlie brass, silver and gold, 
Can any dare affirm he found them out 
Before me ? None, I know I Unless 

he choose 
To lie in his vaunt. In one word learn 

the whole, — 
That all arts came to mortals from Pro- 
metheus. 
Chorus. Give mortals now no inex- 
pedient help. 
Neglecting thine own sorrow ! I have 

hope still 
To see thee, breaking from the fetter 

here. 
Stand up as strong as Zeus. 

Promctheiis. This ends not thu=:, 

The oracular Fate ordains. I must be 

bowed 
By infinite woes and pangs, to escape 

this chain. 
Necessity is stronger than mine art. 
Chorus. Who holds the helm of that 

Necessity ? 
Prometheus. The threefold Fates 

and the unfqrgetting Furies. 
Chorus. Is Zeus less absolute than 

these are ? 
Prometheus. Yea, 

And therefore cannot fly what is or- 
dained. 
Chorus. What is ordained for Zens, 

except to be a king forever ? 
Prometheus. 'Tis too early yet 

For thee to learn it : ask no more. 

Chorus. Perhaps 

Thy secret may be something holy ? 

Prometheus. Turn 

To another matter 1 this, it is not time 
To speak abroad, but utterly to veil 
In silence. For by that same secret 

kept, 
I 'scape this chain's dishonor and its 
woe. 



Chorus, rst Strophe. 
Never, oh never. 
May Zeus, the all-giver. 
Wrestle down from his throne 
In that might of his own. 
To antagonize mine ! 
Nor let me delay 
As I bend on my way 
Toward the gods of the shrine. 



Where the altar is full 
Of the blood of the bull. 
Near the tossing brine 
Of Ocean my father. 
May no sin be sped in the word that is 
said. 
But my vow to be rather 
Consummated, 
Nor evermore fail, nor evermore pine. 

\st Antistrophc. 
'Tis sweet to have 

Life lengthened out 
With hopes proved brave 

By the very doubt. 
Till the spirit enfold 
Those manifest joys which were fore- 
told ! 
But I thrill to behold 

Thee, victim doomed. 
By the countless cares 
And the drear despairs. 
Forever consumed. 

And all because thou, who art fearless 
now 

Of Zeus above. 
Didst overflow for mankind below. 

With a free-souled, reverent love. 

Ah friend, behold and see ! 
What's all the beauty of humanity ? 

Can it be fair ? 
What's all the strength ?— is it strong ? 

And what hope can they bear. 
These dying livers — hving one day 
long ? 
Ah seest thou not, my friend. 
How feeble and slow, 
And like a dream, doth go 
This poor blind manhood, drifted from 
its end ? 
And how no mortal wranglings can 
confuse 
The harmony of Zeus ? 

Prometheus, I have learnt these things 
From the sorrow in thy face ! 
Another song did fold its wings 
Upon my lips in other days. 
When round the bath and round the 

bed 
The hymeneal chant instead 



PROMETHEUS BOUND, 



i9t 



I sang for thee, and smiled, — 
And thou didst lead, with gifts and 
vows, 

Hesione, my father's child. 
To be thy wedded spouse. 

lo enters. 
To. What land is this? what people 
is here ? 
And who is he that writhes, I see. 

In the rock-hung chain ? 
Now what is the crime that hath brought 

thee to pain ? 
And what is the land — make answer 

free — 
Which I wander through, in my wrong 
and fear ? 
Ah ! ah ! ah me ! 
The gad-fly stingeth to agony ! 

Earth, keep off that phantasm pale 
Of earth-born Argus ! — ah ! — I quail 

When my soul descries 
The herdsman with the myriad eyes 
Which seem, as he comes, one crafty 

eye I 
Graves hide him not, though he should 

die. 
But he doggeth me in my misery 
From the roots of death, on high — on 

high— 
And along the sands of the siding deep. 
All famine-worn, he follows me. 
And his waxen reed doth undersound 

The waters round. 
And giveth a measure that giveth sleep. 

Woe, woe, woe ! 
Where shall my weary course be 

done ?— 
What wouldst thou with me, Saturn's 

son? 
And in what have I sinned, that I should 

go 

1 hus yoked to grief by thine hand for 

ever? 
Ah ! ah ! dost vex me so. 

That I madden and shiver, 

Stung through with dread ? 
Flash the fire down, to burn me ! 
Heave the earth up, to cover me ! 
Or plunge me in the deep, with the salt 

waves over me. 
Where the sea-beasts may be fed I 
O king, do not spurn me 



In my prayer ! 
For this wandering everlonger, ever- 
more. 
Hath overworn me, — 
And I know not on what shore 
I may rest from my despair. 
Chorus. Hearest thou what the ox- 
horned maiden saith ? 
Froinetheus. How could I choose 
but hearken what she saith. 
The frenzied maiden ? — Inachus's 

child ?— 
Who love-warms Zeus's heart, and now 

is lashed 
By Here's hate, along the unending 
ways ? 
lo. Who taught thee to articulate 

that name, — 
My father's ? Speak to his child. 
By grief and shame defiled ! 
Who art thou, victim, thou — who dost 

acclaim 
Mine anguish in true words, on the wide 

air? 
And callest too by name, the curse that 
came 
From Here unaware. 
To waste and pierce me with the mad- 
ening goad. 
Ah — ah — I leap 
With the pang of the hungry — I bound 
on the road — 
I am driven by my doom — • 
I am overcome 
By the wrath of an enemy strong and 

deep ! 
AVe any of those who have tasted pain, 

Alas ! — as wretched as I ? 
Now tell me plain, doth aught remain 
For my soul to endure beneath the sky ? 
Is there any help to be holpen by ? 
If knowledge be in thee, let it be said — 

Cry aloud — cry 
To the wandering, woeful maid. 

Prometheus. Whatever thou wouldst 
learn I will declare, — 
No riddle upon my lips, but such straight 

words. 
As friends should use to each other when 

they talk. 
Thou seest Prometheus, who gave mor- 
tals fire. 
lo. O common Help of all men, 
known of all. 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 



O miserable Prometheus, — for what 

caiLse 
Dost thou endure thus ? 

Prometheus. I have done with wail 
For my own griefs — but lately — 

lo. Wi'it thou not 

Vouchsafe the boon to me ? 

Prometheus . Say which thou wilt, 
For I vouchsafe all. 

lo. Speak then, and reveal 

Who shut thee in this chasm. 

Prometheus. The will of Zeus, 

The hand of his Hephaestus. 

lo. And what crime 

Dost expiate so ? 

Prometheus. I have told enough for 
thee. 
In so much only 

lo. Nay — ^but .show besides 

The limit of my wandering, and the 

time 
Which yet is lacking to fulfil my grief. 
Prometheus. Why, not to know 
Were better than to know. 
For such as thou. 

lo. Beseech thee, blind me not 

To that which I must suffer. 

Prometheus. If I do 

The reason is not that I grudge the boon. 

lo. What reason, then, prevents thy 

speaking out ? 
Prometheus. No grudging ! but a 

fear to break thine heart. 
lo. Less care for me, I pray thee ! 

Certainty, I count for advantage. 
Profnetheus. Thou wilt have it 

so. 
And, therefore, I must speak. Now 
hear — 

Chorus. Not yet ! 

Give half the guerdon my way. Let us 

learn 
First, what the curse is that befel the 

maid, — 
Iler own voice telling her own wasting 

woes ! 
The sequence of that anguish .shall await 
The teaching of thy lips. 

Prometheics. It doth behove 

That thou, maid To, shouldst vouchsafe 

to these 
The grace they pray ; thcMnorc, because 

they are called 



Thy father's sisters ; since to open out 
And mourn out grief where it is possible 
To draw a tear from the audience, is a 

work 
That pays its own price well. 

lo. I cannot choose 

H.it trust you, nymphs, and tell you all 

ye ask. 
In clear words — though I sob amid my 

speech 
In speaking of the storm-curse sent from 

Zeus, 
And of my beauty, from which height 

it took 
Its swoop on me, poor wretch I left thus 

deformed, 
And monstrous to your eyes. For ever- 
more 
Around my virgin chamber, wandering 

went 
The nightly visions which entreated me 
With syllabled smooth sweetness. — 

' Blessed maid, 
Why lengthen out thy maiden hours 

when fate 
Permits the noblest spousal in the world ? 
When Zeus burns with the arrow of thy 

love. 
And fain would touch thy beauty. — 

Maiden, thou 
Despise not Zeus ! depart to Lerne's 

mead 
That's green around thy father's flocks 

and stalls, 
Until the passion of the heavenly eye 
Be quenched in sight.' Such dreams 

did all night long 
Constrain me — me, unhappy ! — till I 

dared 
To tell my father how they trod the dark 
With visionary steps ; whereat he sent 
His frequent heralds -to the Pythian 

fane, 
And also to Dodona, and inquired 
How best, by act or speech, to please 

the gods. 
The same returning, brought back ora- 
cles 
Of doubtful sense, indefinite response. 
Dark to interpret ; but at last there 

came 
To Inachus an answer that was clear, — 
Thrown straight as any bolt, and spoken 

out. 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 



This — ' he should drive mc from my 

home and land. 
And bid me wander to the extreme 

verge 
Of all the earth — or, if he willed it not. 
Should have a thunder with a fiery eye 
Leap straight from Zeus to bum up all 

his race 
To the last root of it.' By which Lox- 

ian word 
Subdued, he drove me forth, and shut 

me out. 
He loth, me loth, — but Zeus's violent bit 
Compelled him to the deed ! — when 

instantly 
My body and soul were changed and 

distraught. 
And, horned as ye see, and spurred 

along 
By the fanged insect, with a maniac 

leap 
I rushed on to Cerchnea's limpid stream 
And Lerne's fountain-water. There, 

the earth born. 
The herdsman Argus, most immitigable 
Of wrath, did find me out, and track 

me out 
With countless eyes, yet staring at my 

steps ! — 
And though an unexpected sudden 

doom 
Drew him from life — I, curse-tormented 

still. 
And driven from land to land before the 

scourge 
The gods hold o'er me. So, thou hast 

heard the past. 
And if a bitter future thou canst tell. 
Speak on ! I charge thee, do not flatter 

me 
Through pity, with false words ! for, in 

my mind. 
Deceiving works more shame than tor- 
turing doth. 

Cho7-us. 

Ah ! silence here ! 
Nevermore, nevermore. 
Would I languish for 
The stranger's word 
To thrill mine ear ! — 



So hard to behold. 
So cruel to bear. 

Piercing my soul with a double-«dged 
sword 

Of a sliding cold ! 
Ah fate ! — ah me !— 
I shudder to see 

This wandering maid in her agony. 

Prometheus. Grief is too qulclc i.-\ 

thee, and fear too full ! 

Be patient till thou hast learnt tlic rest I 

Chorus. Speak — teach \ 

To those who are sad already, it seems 

sweet. 
By clear foreknowledge to make perfect, 
pain. 
Protnetheus. The boon ye a^ked me 
first was lightly won, — 
For first ye asked the story of this 

maid's grief 
As her own lips might tell it — now 

remains 
To list what other sorrows she so young 
Must bear from Here ! — Inachus's child, 
O thou! — Drop down thy soul my 

weighty words. 
And measure out the landmarks which 

are set 
To end thy wandering. Toward the 

orient sun 
First turn thy face from mine, and jour- 
ney on 
Along the desert flats, till thou shalt 

come 
Where Scythia's shepherd peoples dwell 

aloft. 
Perched in wheeled wagons under 

woven roofs. 
And twang the rapid arrov/ past the 

bow — 
Approach them not ; but siding ia thy 

course. 
The rugged shore-rocks resonant to the 

sea. 
Depart that country. On the left hand 

dwell 
The iron-workers, called the Chalybes, 
Of whom beware ! for certes they arc 

uncouth. 
And nowise bland to strangers. Reach- 
ing so 
Nevermore for the wrong and the woe i The stream Hybristcs, (well the scornsr 



and the fear, 



called). 



194 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 



Attempt no passage ; — it is hard to pass. 
Or ere thou come to Caucasus itself. 
The highest of mountains, — where the 

river leaps 
The precipice in his strength ! — thou 

must toil up 
Those mountain-tops that neighbor with 

the stars. 
And tread the south way, and draw 

near, at last. 
The Amazonian host that hateth man. 
Inhabitants of Themiscyra, close 
Upon Thermodon, where the sea's rough 

jaw 
Doth gnash at Salmydessa and provide 
A cruel host to seamen, and to ships 
A stepdame. They, with unreluctant 

hand, 
Shall lead thee on and on, till thou 

arrive 
J ust where the ocean gates show narrow- 
est 
On the Cimmerian isthmas. Leaving 

which. 
Behoves thee swim with fortitude of 

soul 
The strait Mseotis. Ay ! and evermore 
That traverse shall be famous on men's 

lips. 
That strait, called Bosphorus, the horned 

one's road. 
So named because of thee, who so wilt 

pass 
From Europe's plain to Asia's continent. 
How think ye, nymphs? the king of 

gods appears 
Impartial in ferocious deeds ? Behold 
The god desirous of this mortal's love 
Hath cursed her with these wanderings. 

Ah, fair child. 
Thou hast met a bitter groom for bridal 

troth ! 
For all thou yet hast heard, can only 

prove 
The incompleted prelude of thy doom. 
lo. Ah, ah ! 
Prometheus. Is't thy turn, now, to 

shriek and moan ? 
How wilt thou when thou hast heark- 
ened what remains ? 
Chorus. Besides the grief thou hast 

told, can aught remain ? 
Prometheus. A sea — of foredoomed 

evil worked to storm. 



lo. What boots my life, then ? why 
not cast myself 
Down headlong from this miserable 

rock. 
That, dashed against the flats, I may 

redeem 
My soul from sorrow ? Better once to 

die. 
Than day by day to suffer. 

Prometheus. \"erily. 

It would be hard for thee to bear my 

woe. 
For whom it is appointed not to d c. 
Death frees from woe : but I before me 

see 
In all my far prevision, not a bound 
To all I suffer, ere that Zeus shall fall 
From being a king. 

lo. And can it ever be 

That Zeus shall fall from empire ? 

Prometheus. Thou, methinks, 

Wouldst take some joy to see it. 

lo. Could I choose ; 

/, who endure such pangs, now, by that 
god? 
Prometheus. Learn from me, there- 
fore, that the event shall be. 
lo. By whom shall his imperial scep- 
tred hand 
Be emptied so ? 

Prometheus, Himself shall spoil 

himself. 
Through his idiotic counsels. 

lo. How ? declare ; 

Unless the word bring evil. 

Projttetheus. He shall wed — 

And in the marriage-bond be joined to 
grief. 
lo. A heavenly bride — or human ? 
Speak it out. 
If it be utterable. 

Prometheus. Why should I say 

which ? 
It ought not to be uttered, verily. 

lo. Then 

It is his wife shall tear him f.om his 
throne ? 
Prometheus It Is his wife shall bear 
a son to him, 
More mighty than the father. 

7(7. From this doom 

Hath he no refuge? 

Prometheus. None — or ere that I, 
Loosed from these fetters — 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 



To Yea — but who shall loose 

While Zeus is adverse ? 
Prometheus. One who is bom of 
thee, — 
It is ordained so. 

lo. What is this thou sayest — 

A son of mine shall liberate thee from 
woe? 
Prometheus. After ten generations, 
count three more, 
And find him in the third. 

lo. The oracle 

Remains obscure. 

Prometheus. And search it not to 
learn 
Thine own griefs from it. 

lo. Point me not to a good. 

To leave me straight bereaved, 

Prometheus. I am prepared 

To grant thee one of two things. 

Jo. But which two ? 

Set them before me — grant me power to 

choose. 
Prometheus. I grant it — choose now I 

shall name aloud 
What griefs remain to wound thee, or 

what hand 
Shall save me out of mine. 

Chorus. Vouchsafe, O god. 

The one grace of the twain to her who 

prays. 
The next to me — and turn back neither 

prayer 
Dishonored by denial. To herself 
Recount the future wandering of her 

feet — 
Then point me to the looser of thy 

chain — 
Because I yearn to know it. 

Prometheus. Since ye will. 

Of absolute will, this knowledge, I will 

set 
No contrary against it, nor keep back 
A word of all ye ask for. lo, first 
To thee I must relate thy wandering 

course 
Ytcc winding ; as I tell it, write it down 
In thy soul's book of memories. When 

thou hast past 
The refluent bound that parts two con- 
tinents. 
Track on the footsteps of the orient sun 
In his own fire — acros.s the roar of seas. 



Fly till thou hast reached the Gorgoncam 
flats 

Beside Cisthene — there the Phorcides, 

Three ancient maidens, live, with shape 
of swan. 

One tooth between them, and one com- 
mon eye, 

On whom the sun doth never look at all 

With all his rays, nor evermore the 
moon. 

When she looks through the night. 
Anear to whom 

Are the Gorgon sisters three, enclothed 
with wings. 

With twisted snakes for ringlets, man- 
abhorred. 

There is no mortal gazes in their face. 

And gazing can breathe on. I speak of 
such 

To guard thee from their horror. Ay I 
and list 

Another tale of a dreadful sight I be- 
ware 

The Griffins, those imbarking dogs of 
Zeus, 

Those sharp-mouthed dogs! — and the 
Arimaspian host 

Of one-eyed horsemen, habiting beside 

The river of Pluto that runs bright with 
gold. 

Approach them not, beseech thee. Pre- 
sently 

Thou'lt come to a distant land, a dusky 
tribe 

Of dwellers at the fountain of the Sun, 

Whence flows the river iEthiops ! — 
wind along 

Its banks and turn off at the cataracts. 

Just as the Nile pours from the Bybline 
hills. 

His holy and sweet wave! his course 
shall guide 

Thine own to that triangular Nile- 
ground 

Where, lo, is ordained for thee and thine 

A lengthened exile. Have I said, in 
this. 

Aught darkly or incompletely ?— now 
repeat 

The question, make the knowledge 
fuller ! Lo, 

I have more leisure than I covet, here. 
Chorus. If thou canst tell us aught 
that's left untold 



19^ 



PROMETHEUS BOUiVD. 



Or loosely told of her most dreary flight, 
Declare it straight! but if thou hast 

uttered all, 
Grant us that latter grace for which we 

prayed, 
Remembering how we prayed it. 

Prometheus. She has heard 

The uttermost of her wandering. There 

it ends. 
But that she may be certain not to have 

heard 
All vainly, I will speak what she en- 
dured 
Ere coming hither, and invoke the past 
To prove my prescience true. And so 

to leave 
A multitude of words, and pass at once 
To the subject of thy course ! — When 

thou hadst gone 
To those Molossian plains which sweep 

around 
Dodona shouldering Heaven, whereby 

the fane 
Of Zeus Thesprotian keepeth oracle. 
And wonder, past belief, where oaks do 

wave 
Articulate adjurations — fay, the same 
Saluted thee in no perplexed phrase. 
But clear with glory, noble wife of Zeus 
That shouldst be, there, some sweetness 

took thy sense !) 
Thou didst rush further onward, — stung 

along 
The ocean-shore, — toward Rhea's 

mighty bay. 
And, tost back from it, was tost to it 

again 
In stormy evolution ! — and, know well, 
In coming time that hollow of the sea 
Shall bear the name Ionian, and present 
A monument of lo's passage through. 
Unto all mortals. Be these words the 

signs 
Of my soul's power to look beyond the 

veil 
Of visible things. The rest to you and 

her, 
I will declare in common audience, 

nymphs. 
Returning thither, where my speech 

brake off. 
There is a town Canobus, built upon 
The earth's fair margin, at the mouth of 

Nile. 



And on the mound washed up by it! — 

lo, there 
Shall Zeus give back to thee thy perfect 

mind. 
And only by the pressure and the toucli 
Of a hand not terrible ; and thou to 

Zeus 
Shalt bear a dusky son, v/ho shall be 

called 
Thence, Epaphus, Touched I That son 

shall pluck the fruit 
Of all that land wide- watered by the 

flow 
Of Nile ; but after him, when counting 

out 
As far as the fifth full generation, then 
Full fifty maidens, a fair woman-race. 
Shall back to Argos turn reluctantly. 
To fly the proffered nuptials of their 

km. 
Their father's brothers. These being 

passion-struck. 
Like falcons bearing hard on flying 

doves. 
Shall follow, hunting at a quarry of love 
They should not hunt — till envious 

■ Heaven maintain 
A curse betwixt that beauty and their 

desire. 
And Greece receive them, to be over- 
come 
In murtherous woman-war, by fierce red 

hands 
Kept savage by the night. For every 

wife 
Shall slay a husband, dyeing deep in 

blood 
The sword of a double edge ! (I wish 

indeed 
As fair a marriage-joy to all my foes !) 
One bride alone shall fail to smite to 

death 
The head upon her pillow touched with 

love. 
Made impotent of purpose, and im- 
pelled 
To choose the lesser evil — shame on her 

cheeks, 
The blood-guilt on ner hands. Which 

bride shall bear 
A royal race in Argos — tedious speech 
Were needed to relate particulars 
Of these things — 'tis enough that from 

her seed, 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 



Shall spring the strong He — famous with 

the bow. 
Whose arm shall break my fetters off ! 

Behold, 
My mother Themis, that old Titaness, 
Delivered to me such an oracle ; 
Bat how and when, I should be long to 

speak. 
And thou, in hearing, wouldst not gain 

at all. 

lo. Eleleu, eleleu ! 

How the spasm and the pain 
And the fire on the brain 
Strike, burning me through ! 
How the sting of the curse, all aflame 
as it flew. 
Pricks me onward again ! 
How my heart in its terror, is spurning 

my breast. 
And my eyes, like the wheels of a cha- 
riot, roll round, — 
I am whirled from my course, to the 

east, to the west. 
In the whirlwind of frenzy all madly 

in wound — 
And my mouth is unbridled for anguish 

and hate, ... 

And my words beat in vain, in wild 
storms of unrest. 
On the sea of my desolate fate. 

Chorus. — Strophe. 
Oh ! wise was he, oh, wise was he. 
Who first within his spirit knew 
And with his tongue declared it true, 
That love comes best that comes unto 

The equal of degree ! 
And that the poor and that the low 
Should seek no love from those above 
Whose souls are fluttered with the flow 
Of airs about their golden height. 
Or proud because they see arow 
Ancestral crowns of light ! 

Antistrophe. 
Oh ! never, never, may ye. Fates, 

Behold me with your awful eyes 

Lift mine too fondly up the skies 
Wtiere Zeus upon the purple waits ! — 

Nor let me step too near — too near — 
To any suitor, bright from heaven — 

Because I see — because I fear 
This loveless maiden vexed and laden 



By this fell curse of Here, — driven 
On wanderings dread and drear I 

Epode. 
Nay, grant an equal troth instead 

Of nuptial troth to bind me by ! — 
It will not hurt — I shall not dread 

To meet it in reply. 
But let not love from those above 
Revert and fix me, as I said. 

With that inevitable Eye ! 
I have no sword to fight that fight — 
I have no strength to tread that path— 
I know not if my nature hath 
The power to bear, — I cannot see. 
Whither, from Zeus's infinite, 
I have the power to flee. 

Prometheus. Yet Zeus, albeit most 

absolute of will 
Shall turn to meekness, — such a mar- 
riage-rite 
He holds in preparation, which anon 
Shall thrust him headlong from his 

gerent seat 
Adown the abysmal void, and so the 

curse 
His father Chronos muttered in his fall. 
As he fell from his ancient throne and 

cursed. 
Shall be accomplished wholly — no es, 

cape 
From all that ruin shall the filial Zeus 
Find granted to him from any of his 

gods, 
Unless I teach him. I, the refuge, know. 
And I, the means — Nov/, therefore, let 

him sit 
And brave the imminent doom, and fi.x 

his faith 
On his supernal noises, hurtling on 
With restless hand, the bolt that breathes 

out fire — 
For these things shall not help him — 

none of them — 
Nor hinder his perdition when he falls 
To shame, and lower than patience. — 

Such a foe 
He doth himself prepare against him- 
self, 
A wonder of unconquerable Hate, 
An organiser of sublimer fire 
Than glares in lightnings, and of grander 

sound 



jgS 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 



Than aught the thunder rolls, — out- 
thundering it. 
With power to shatter in Poseidon's fist 
The trident spear, which, while it plagues 

the sea. 
Doth shake the shores around it. Ay, 

and Zeus, 
Precipitated thus, shall learn at length 
The difference betwixt rule and servi- 
tude. 
Chorus. Thou makest threats for 

Zeus of thy desires. 
Projnetheus. I tell you all these 
things shall be fulfilled. 
Even so as I desire them. 

Chorus. Must we then 

Look out for one shall come to master 
Zeus ? 
Prometheus. These chains weigh 

lighter than his sorrows shall. 
Chorus. How art thou not afraid to 

utter such words ? 
Prometheus. What should / fear, 

who cannot die ? 
Chorus. But he 

Can visit thee with dreader woe than 
death's. 
Projnetheus. Why let him do it ! — I 
am here, prepared 
For all things and their pangs. 

Chorus. The wise are they 

Who reverence Adrasteia. 

Projnetheus. Reverence thou. 

Adore thou, flatter thou, whomever 

reigns. 
Whenever reigning — but for me, your 

Zeus 
Is less than nothing ! Let him act and 

reign 
His brief hour out according to his 

will- 
He will not, therefore, rule the gods too 

long ! 
But lo ! I see that courier-god of Zeus, 
That new-made menial of the new- 
crowned king — 
He doubtless comes to announce to us 
something new. 

Hermes enters, 
Hermes. I speak to thee, the sophist, 
the talker down 



Of scorn by scorn, — the sinner against 
gods. 

The reverencer of men, — the thief of 
fire,— 

I speak to and adjure thee ! Zeus re- 
quires 

Thy declaration of what marriage-rite 

Thus moves thy vaunt and shall hereaf- 
ter cause 

His fall from empire. Do not wrap thy 
speech 

In riddles, but speak clearly ! Never 
cast 

Ambiguous paths, Prometheus, for my 
feet— 

Since Zeus, thou may'st perceive, is 
scarcely won 

To mercy by such means. 

Prometheus. A speech well-mouthed 

In the utterance, and full minded in the 
sense. 

As doth befit a servant of the gods ! 

New gods, ye newly reign, and think 
forsooth 

Ye dwell in towers too high for any 
dart 

To carry a wound there ! Have I not 
stood by 

While two kings fell from thence ? and 
shall I not 

Behold the third, the .same who rules 
you now. 

Fall, shamed to sudden ruin ? — Do I 
seem 

To tremble and quail before your mod- 
ern gods ? 

Far be it from me ! — For thyself depart. 

Re-tread thy steps in haste ! To all 
thou hast asked, 

I answer nothing. 

Herjnes. Such a wind of pride 

Impelled thee of yore full sail upon 
these rocks. 
Prometheus. I would not barter — 
learn thou soothly that ! — 

My suffering for thy service ! I main- 
tain 

It is a nobler thing to serve these rocks 

Than live a faithful slave to father 
Zeus — 

Thus upon scomers I retort their scorn. 
Hermes. It seems that thou dost 
glory in thy despair. 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 



199 



Prometheus. I, glory ? would my foes 

did glory so. 
And I stood by to see them ! — naming 

whom 
Thou art not unremembered. 

Hermes. Dost thou charge 

Me also with the blame of thy mis- 
chance ? 
Prometheus. I tell thee I loathe the 
universal gods, 
Who for the good I gave them rendered 

back 
The ill of their injustice. 

Hermes. Thou art mad — 

I hear thee raving. Titan, at the fever- 
height. 
Prometheus. If it be madness to 
abhor my foes. 
May I be mad ! 

Hermes. If thou wert prosperous. 

Thou wouldst be unendurable. 

Prometheus. Alas ! 

Her7nes. Zeus knows not that word. 
Prometheus. But maturmg time 

Doth teach all things. 

Hermes. Howbeit, thou hast not 
learnt 
The wisdom yet, thou needest. 

Prometheus. If I had, 

I should not talk thus with a slave like 
thee. 
Hermes. No answer thou vouchsaf- 
est, I believe. 
To the great Sire's requirement. 

Provtetheus. Verily 

I owe him grateful service, — and should 
pay it. 
Hermes. Why dost thou mock me. 
Titan, as I stood 
A child before thy face. 

Provtetheus. No child, forsooth. 

But yet more foolish than a foolish 

child, 
If thou expect that I should answer 

aught 
Thy Zeus can ask. No torture from his 

hand. 
Nor any machination in the world 
Shall force my utterance, ere he loose, 

himself. 
These cankerous fetters from me ! For 

the rest. 
Let him now hurl his blanching light- 
nings dowa. 



And with his white-winged snows, and 

mutterings deep 
Of subterranean thunders, mix all 

things ; 
Confound them in disorder! None of 

this 
Shall bend my sturdy will and make me 

speak 
The name of his dethroner who shall 

come. 
Hervies. Can this avail thee ? Look 

to it! 
Prometheus. Long ago 

It was looked forward to, — precounselled 

of. 
Hermes. Vain god, take righteous 

courage ! — dare for once 
To apprehend and front thine agonies 
With a just prudence ! 

Protnethetis. Vainly dost thou chafe 
My soul with exhortation, as yonder sea 
Goes beating on the rock. Oh ! think 

no more 
That I, fear-struck by Zeus to a woman's 

mind. 
Will supplicate him, loathed as he is 
With feminine upliftings of my hands. 
To break these chains ! Far from me be 

the thought ! 
Hermes. I have indeed, methinks, 

said much in vain, — 
For still thy heart, beneath my showers 

of prayers. 
Lies dry and hard ! — nay, leaps like a 

young horse 
Who bites against the new bit in his 

teeth. 
And tugs and struggles against the new- 
tried rein, — 
Still fiercest in the feeblest thing of all. 
Which sophism is, — since absolute will 

disjoined 
From perfect mind is worse than weak. 

Behold, 
Unless my words persuade thee, what a 

blast 
And whirlwind of inevitable woe 
Must sweep persuasion through thee! 

For at first 
The Father will split up this jut of rock 
With the great thunder and the bolted 

flame. 
And hide thy body where a hinge of 

stone 



PROMETHEUS BOUND. 



Shall catch it like an arm ! — ^and when 

thou hast passed 
A long black time within, thou shalt 

come out 
To front the sun, while Zeus's winged 

hound. 
The strong carniverous eagle, shall 

wheel down 
To meet thee, — self-called to a daily 

feast. 
And set his fierce beak in thee, and tear 

off 
The long rags of thy flesh, and batten 

deep 
Upon thy dusky liver ! Do not look 
Yox any end moreover to this curse. 
Or ere some god appear, to accept thy 

pangs 
On his own head vicarious, and descend 
With unreluctantstep the darks of hell 
And gloomy abysses around Tartarus ! 
Then ponder this ! — this threat is not a 

growth 
Of vain invention : it is spoken and 

meant ! 
King Zeus's mouth is impotent to lie, 
Consummating the utterance by the 

act — 
So, look to it, thou ! — take heed ! — and 

nevermore 
Forget good counsel, to indulge self-will ! 
Chorus. Our Hermes suits his rea- 
sons to the times — 
At least I think so ! — since he bids thee 

drop 
Self-will for prudent counsel. Yield to 

him ! 
When the wise err, their wisdom makes 

their shame. 
Prometheus. Unto me the foreknow- 

er, this mandate of power 
He cries, to reveal it. 
What's strange in my fate, if I suffer 
from hate 

At the hour that I feel it ? 
Let the locks of the lightning, all brist- 
ling and whitening. 

Flash, coiling me round ! 
While the ether goes surging 'neath 
thunder and scourging 

Of wild winds unbound ! 
Let the blast of the firmament whirl 
from its place 

The earth rooted below. 



And the brine of the ocean in rapid 
emotion, 
Be it driven in the face 
Of the stars up in heaven, as they walk 

to and fro ! 
Let him hurl me anon, into Tartarus — 
on — 
To the blackest degree. 
With. Necessity's vortices strangling me 

down ! 
But he cannot join death to a fate meant 
for me ! 
Heri7tes. Why the words that he 
speaks and the thoughts that he 
thinks. 
Are maniacal — add. 
If the Fate who hath bound him, should 
loose not the links. 
He were utterly mad. 
Then depart ye who groan with him. 
Leaving to moan with him — 
Go in haste ! lest the roar of the thun- 
der anearing 
Should blast you to idiocy, living and 
hearing. 
Chorus. Change thy speech for an- 
other, thy thought for a new. 
If to move me and teach me, indeed 
be thy care ! 
For thy words swerve so far from the 
loyal and true. 
That the thunder of Zeus seems more 
easy to bear. 
How ! couldst teach me to venture such 
vileness? 

Behold ! 

I choose, with this victim, this anguish 
foretold ! 
I recoil from the traitor in hate and dis- 
dain, — 
And I know that the curse of the trea- 
son is worse 

Than the pang of the chain. 
Henries. Then remember, O nymphs, 

what I tell you before. 
Nor, when pierced by the arrows that 
Ate will throw you. 
Cast blame on your fate and declare 
evermore 
That Zeus thrust you on anguLsh he 
did not foreshow you. 
Nay, verily, nay ! for ye perish anon 
For your deed — by your choice ! — by 
no blindness of doubt. 



■A LAMENT FOR ADONIS, 



No abruptness of doom ! — but by mad- 
ness alone. 
In the great net of Ate, whence none 
Cometh out, 

Ye are wound and undone ! 
Projnetheits. Ay ! in act, now — in 
word, now, no more ! 

Earth is rocking in space ! 
And the thunders crash up with a roar 
upon roar — 
And the eddying lightnings flash fires 
in my face. 
And the whirlwinds are whirling the 
dust round and round — 
And the blasts of the winds universal, 
leap free 
And blow each upon each, with a pas- 
sion of sound. 
And aether goes mingling in storm 
with the sea ! 
Sich a curse on my head, in a manifest 
dread, 
f rom the hand of your Zeus has been 
hurtled along ! 
O my mother's fair glory ! O, ^ther, 

enringing. 
All eyes, with the sweet common light 
of thy bringing. 
Uost thou see how I suffer this 
wrong ? 



lA LAMENT FOR ADONIS. 

FROM BION. 



I riouRN for Adonis — Adonis is dead ! 
Fair Adonis is dead, and the Loves 
are lamenting. 
Sleep, Cypris, no more on thy purple- 
strewed bed ! 
Arise, wretch stoled in black, — beat 
thy breast unrelenting, 
And shriek to the worlds, ' Fair Adonis 
is dead.' 



I mourn for Adonis — the Loves are la- 
menting. 
He lies on the hills, in his beauty and 
death,— 



The white tusk of a boar has transfixed 
his white thigh ; 
Cytheria grows mad at his thin gap- 
ing breath, 
While the black blood drips down on the 
pale ivory, 
And his eye-balls lie quenched with 
the weight of his brows. 
The rose fades from his lips, and upon 
them just parted 
The kiss dies the goddess consents not 
to lose. 
Though the kiss of the Dead cannot 
make her glad-hearted — 
He knows not who kisses him dead in 
the dews. 



I mourn for Adonis — the Loves are la- 
menting. 
Deep, deep in the thigh, is Adonis's 
wound ; 
But a deeper, is Cypris's bosom pre- 
senting — 
The youth lieth dead while his dogs 
howl around, 
And the nymphs weep aloud from the 
mists of the hill. 
And the poor Aphrodite, with tresses 
unbound, 
All dishevelled, unsandalled, shrieks 
mournful and shrill 
Through the dusk of the groves. The 
thorns, tearing her feet. 
Gather up the red flower of her blood 
which is holy. 
Each footstep she takes ; and the val- 
leys repeat 
The sharp cry she utters, and draw it 
out slowly. 
She calls on her spouse, her Assyrian ; 
on him 
Her own youth ; while the dark blood 
spreads over his body — 
The chest taking hue from the gash 
in the limb. 
And the bosom once ivory, turning to 
ruddy. 



Ah, ah, Cytheria ! the Loves are la- 
menting : 
She lost her fair spouse, and so lost 
her fair smile — 



A LAMENT FOR ADONIS, 



When he lived she was fair by t'he whole 
world's consenting. 
Whose fairness is dead with him ! woe 
worth the while ! 
All the mountains above and the oak- 
lands below 
Murmur, ah, ah Adonis! the streams 
overflow 
Aphrodite's deep wail, — river-fountains 
in pity- 
Weep soft in the hills ; and the flow- 
ers as they blow. 
Redden outward with sorrow ; while all 
hear her go 
With the song of her sadness, through 
mountain and city 



Ah, ah, Cytheria ! Adonis is dead ! 
Fair Adonis is^dead — Echo answers, 
Adonis ! 
Who weeps not for Cypris, when bow- 
ing her head. 
She stares at the wound where it 
gapes and astonies ? 
— When, ah, ah ! — she saw how the 
blood ran away 
And empurpled the thigh ; and, with 
wild hands flung out, 
Said with sobs, ' Stay, Adonis ! unhappy 
one, stay, 
Let me feel thee once more — let me 
ring thee about 
With the clasp of my arms, and press 
kiss into kiss! 
Wait a little, Adonis, and kiss me 
again. 
For the last time, beloved ; ajid but so 
much of this 
That the kiss may learn life from the 
warmth of the strain ! 
—Till thy breath shall exude from thy 
soul tor my mouth ; 
To my heart ; and, the love-charm I 
once more receiving, 
May drink thy love in it, and keep of a 
truth 
That one kiss in the place of Adonis 
the living. 
Thou fliest me, mournful one, fliest me 
far. 
My Adonis ; and seekest the Acheron 
portal, — 



To Hell's cruel King goest down with a 
scar, 
While I weep and live on like a 
wretched immortal, 
And follow no step ; — O Persephone, 
take him. 
My husband ! — thou'rt better and 
brighter than I 
So all beauty flows down to thee 1 / 
cannot make him 
Look up at my grief ; there's despair 
in my cry. 
Since I wail for Adonis, who died to mc 
. . died to me . . 
— Then, I fear thee/ — Art thou dead, 
my Adored ? 
Passion ends like a dream in the sleep 
that's denied to me. — 
Cypris is widowed ; the Loves seek 
their lord 
All the house through in vain ! Charni 
of cestus has ceased 
With thy clasp 1 — O too bold in the 
hunt, past preventing ; 
Ay, mad : thou so fair ... to have strife 
with a beast !' — 
Thus the Goddess wailed on — and the 
loves are lamenting. 



Ah, ah, Cytherea ! Adonis Is dead. 
She wept tear after tear, with the blood 

which was shed ; 
And both turned into flowers for the 

earth's garden-close ; 
Her tears, to the wind-flower, — his blood 

to the rose. 



I mourn for Adonis — Adonis is dead. 
Weep no more in the woods, Cytherea, 
thy lover I 
So, well ; make a place for his corse in 
thy bed. 
With the purples thou sleepest in, un- 
der and over. 
He's fair though a corse — a fair corse . . 
like a sleeper — 
Lay him soft in the silks he had plea- 
sure to fold, 
When, beside thee at night, holy dreams 
deep and deeper 



BERTHA JN THE LANE. 



303 



Enclosed his young life on the couch 
made of gold ! 
Ix>ve him still, poor Adonis ! cast on 
him together 
The crowns and the flowers ! since he 
died from the place. 
Why let all die with him — let the blos- 
soms go wither ; 
Rain myrtles and olive -buds down on 
his face : 
Rain the myrrh down, let all that is 
best fall apining. 
For the myrrh of his life from thy 
keeping is swept ! — 
— Pale he lay, thine Adonis, in purples 
reclining, — 
The Loves raised their voices around 
him and wept. 
They have shorn their bright curls off 

to cast on Adonis : 
One treads on his bow, — on his arrows, 

another, — 
One breaks up a well-feathered quiver ; 
and one is 
Bent low at a sandal, untying the 

strings ; 
And one carries the vases of gold from 
the springs. 
While one washes the wound ; and be- 
hind them a brother 
Fans down on the body sweet air 
with his wings. 



Cytherea herself, now, the Loves are 
lamenting. 
Each torch at the door Hymenseus 
blew out ; 
And the marriage-wreath dropping Its 
leaves as repenting, 
No more ' Hymen, Hymen,' is chant- 
ed about, 
But the ai ai instead — ' ai alas ' is begun 
For Adonis, and then follows ' ai 
Hymenaeus ! ' 
The Graces are weeping for Cinyris' son 
Sobbing low, each to each, ' His fair 
eyes cannot see us ! ' — 
Their wail strikes more shrill than the 

sadder Dione's ; 
The Fates mourn aloud for Adonis, 
Adonis, 



Deep chanting ! he hears not a word 
that they say : 
He would hear, but Persephone has 
him in keeping. 
— Cease moan, Cytherea — leave pomps 
for to-day, 
And weep new when a new year 
refits thee for weeping. 



BERTHA IN THE LANE. 

Put the broidery-frame away. 
For my sewing is all done ! 

The last thread is used to-day. 
And I need net join it on. 
Though the clock stands at the noon 
I am weary ! I have sewn. 
Sweet, for thee, a wedding-gown. 

Sister, help me to the bed, 

And stand near me. Dearest-sweet I 

Do not shrink nor be afraid, 
Blushing with a sudden heat ! 
No one standeth in the street ? — 
By God's love I go to meet. 
Love I thee with love complete. 

Lean thy face down ! drop it in 
These two hands, that I may hold 

'Twixt their palms thy cheek and chin. 
Stroking back the curls of gold. 
'Tis a fair, fair face, in sooth — 
Larger eyes and redder mouth 
Than mine were in my first youth I 

Thou art younger by seven years — 
Ah ! — so bashful at my gaze. 

That the lashes, hung with tears. 
Grow too heavy to upraise ? 
I would wound thee by no touch 
Which thy shyness feels as such — 
Dost thou mind me, Dear, so much? 



Have I not been nigh a mother 
To thy sweetness— tell me. Dear? 

Have we not loved one another 
Tenderly, from year to year. 
Since our dying mother mild 
Said with accents undefiled, 
' Child, be mother to this child ! ' 



BERTHA IN THE LANE. 



Mother, mother, up in heaven. 
Stand up on the jasper sea. 

And be witness I have given 
All the gifts required of me, — 
Hope that blessed me, bliss that 

crowned. 
Love, that left me with a wound. 
Life itself, that turneth round ! 

Mother, mother, thou art kind. 
Thou art standing in the room. 

In a molten glory shrined, 
That rays off into the gloom ! 
But thy smile is bright and bleak 
Like cold waves — I cannot speak ; 
I sob in it, and grow weak. 

Ghostly mother, keep aloof 

One hour longer from my soul — 

For I still am thinking of 

Earth's warm-beating joy and dole : 
On my finger is a ring 
Which 1 still see glittering. 
When the night hides everything. 

Little sister, thou art pale ! 

Ah, I have a wandering brain — 
But I lose that fever-bale. 

And my thoughts grow calm again. 

Lean down closer — closer still ! 

I have words thine ear to fill, — 

And would kiss thee at my will. 

Dear, I heard thee in the spring. 

Thee and Robert — through the trees — 

When we all went gathering 

Boughs of May-bloom for the bees. 
Do not start so ! think instead 
How the sunshine overhead 
Seemed to trickle through the shade. 

What a day it was, that day ! 

Hills and vales did openly 
Seem to heave and throb away 

At the sight of the great sky. 

And the Silence, as it ^tood 

In the Glory's golden flood. 

Audibly did bud — and bud. 

Through the winding hedgerows green, 
How we wandered, I and you, — 

With the bowery tops shut in. 

And the gates that showed the view — 
How wo talked there I thrushes soft 



Sang our pauses out — or oft 
Bleatings took them, from the croft. 

Till the pleasure grown too strong 
Left me muter evermore ; 

And, the winding road being long, 
I walked out of sight, before. 
And so, wrapt in musings fond. 
Issued {past the wayside pond) 
On the meadow -lands beyond. 

I sate down beneath the beech 
Which leans over to the lane. 

And the far sound of your speech 
Did not promise any pain ; 
And I blessed you full and free. 
With a smile stooped tenderly 
O'er the May-flowers on my knee. 

But the sound grew into word 

As the speakers drew more near — 

Sweet, forgive me that 1 heard 
What you wished me not to hear. 
Do not weep so — do not shake — 
Oh, — I heard thee. Bertha, make 
Good true answers for my sake. 

Yes, and he too ! let him stand 

In thy thoughts, vmtouched by blame. 

Could he help it, if my hand 

He had claimed with hasty claim ? 
That was wrong perhaps — but then 
Such things be — and will, again 1 
Women cannot judge for men. 

Had he seen thee when he swore 
He would love but me alone. 

Thou wert absent, — sent before 
To our kin in Sidmouth town. 
When he saw thee who art best 
Past compare, and loveliest. 
He but judged thee as the rest. 

Could we blame him with grave words. 
Thou and I, Dear, if we might? 

Thy brown eyes have looks like birds. 
Flying straightway to the light : 
INIine arc older. — Hush ! — look out — 
Up the street ! Is none without ? 
How the poplar swings about ! 

And that hour — beneath the beech. 

When I listened in a dream. 
And he said, in his deep speech. 



BERTHA IN THE LANE. 



That he owed me all esteem, — 
Each word swana in on my brain 
With a dim. dilating pain. 
Till It Durst with that last strain— 

I fell flooded with a Dark, 
In the silence of a swoon — 

When I rose, still cold and stark. 
There was night, — I saw the moon : 
And the stars, each in its place, 
And the May-blooms on the grass. 
Seemed to wonder what I was. 

And I walked as if apart 

From myself when I could stand — 

And I pitied my own heart, 
As if I held it in my hand. 
Somewhat coldly, — with a sense 
Of fulfilled benevolence. 
And a ' Poor thing ' negligence. 

And I answered coldly too, 

When you met me at the door ; 

And I only heard the dew 

Dripping from me to the floor : 
And the flowers I bade you see . 
Were too withered for the bee. — 
As my life, henceforth for me. 

Do not weep so — Dear — heart-warm ! 
It was best as it befell ! 

If I say he did me harm, 

I speak it wild, — I am not well. 
All his words were kind and good- 
He esteemed me ! Only blood 
Runs so faint in womanhood. 

Then I always was too grave, — 
Liked the saddest ballads sung, — 

With that look, besides, we have 
In our faces, who die young. 
I had died. Dear, all the same- 
Life's long, joyous, jostling game 
Is too loud for my meek shame. 

We are so unlike each other. 

Thou and I ; that none could guess 

We were children of one mother. 
Bat for mutual tenderness. 
Thou art rose-lined from the cold. 
And meant, verily, to hold 
Life's pure pleasures manifold. 



I am pale as crocus grows 

Close beside a rose-tree's root I 

Whosoe'er would reach the rose. 
Treads the crocus underfoot — 
/, like May-bloom on thorn tree — 
Thou, like merry summer-bee ! 
Fit, that / be plucked for thee. 

Yet who plucks me ? — no one mourns — 
I have lived my season out. 

And now die of my own thorns 
Which I could not li\e without. 
Sweet, be merry ! How the light 
Comes and goes ! If it be night. 
Keep the candles in my sight. 

Are there footsteps at the door ? 
Look out quickly. Yea, or nay? 

Some one might be waiting for 
Some last word that I might say. 
Nay ? So best ! — So angels would 
Stand off" clear from deathly road. 
Not to cross the sight of God. 

Colder grow my hands and feet — 
When I wear the shroud I made. 

Let the folds lie straight and neat. 
And the rosemary be spread. 
That if any friend should come, 
(To see thee, sweet 1) all the room 
May be lifted out of gloom. 

And, de.ar Bertha, let me keep 
On my hand this little ring. 

Which at nights, when others sleep, 
I can still see glittering. 
Let me wear it out of sight. 
In the grave, — where it will light 
All the Dark up, day and night. 

On that grave, drop not a tear ! 

Else, though fathom-deep the place. 
Through the woollen shroud I wear 

I shall feel it on my face. 

Rather smile there, blessed one, 

Thinking of me in the sun — 

Or forget me — smiling on ! 

Art thou near me ? nearer ? so. 
Kiss me close upon the eyes. 

That the earthly light may go 
Sweetly as it used to rise. 
When I watched the morning-gray 
Strike, betwixt the hills, the way 
He was sure to come that day. 



THE R UNA WA Y SLA VE. 



So, — no more vain words be said ! 
The hosannas nearer roll — 

Mother, smile now on thy Dead, 
I am death -strong in my soul. 
Mystic Dove alit on cross. 
Guide the poor bird of the snows 
Through the snow-wind above loss! 

Jesus, Victim, comprehending 
Love's divine self-abnegation. 

Cleanse my love in self-spending. 
And absorb the poor libation ! 
Wind my thread of life up higher. 
Up, through angels' hands of fire 1 — 
I aspire while I expire 1 



THAT DAY, 

I STAND by the river where both of us 

stood. 
And there is but one shadow to darken 

the flood ; 
And the path leading to it, where both 

used to pass. 
Has the step but of one, to take dew 

from the grass, — 

One forlorn since that day. 

The flowers of the margin are many to 

see. 
For none stoops at my bidding to pluck 

them for me ; 
The bird in the alder sings loudly and 

long. 
For my low sound of weeping disturbs 

not his song. 

As thy vow did that day 

I stand by the river — I think of the 

vow — 
Oh, calm as the place is, vow-breaker 

be thou ! 
I leave the flower growing — the bird, 

unreproved, — 
Would I trouble tftee rather than them, 

my beloved. 

And my lover that day ? 

Go ! be sure of my love — by that trea- 
son forgiven ; 

Of my prayers — by the blessings they 
win thee from Heaven ; 



Of my grief— (guess the length of the 

sword by the sheath's) 
By the silence of life, more pathetic 

than death's ! 

Go, — be c»ear of that day I 



LIFE AND LOVE. 



Fast this life of mine was dying, 
Blind already and calm as death ; 

Snowflakes on her bosom lying 
Scarcely heaving with the breath. 



Love came by, and having known her 
In a dream of fabled lands. 

Gently stooped, and laid upon her 
Mystic chrism of holy hands • 



Drew his smile across her folded 
Eyelids, as the swallow dips, 

Breathed as finely as the cold did. 
Through the locking of her lips. 



So, when Life looked upward, being 
Warmed and breathed on from above. 

What sight could she have for seeing. 
Evermore but only Love ? 



THE RUNAWAY SLAVE 

AT IMLGRIM's I'OINT. 



I STAND on the mark beside the shore 
Of the first white pilgrim's bended 
knee. 
Where exile turned to ancestor. 

And God was thanked for liberty. . 
I have run through the night, my skin i» 

as dark. 
I bend my knee down on this mark . . 
I look on the sky and the sea. 



THE R UNA WA V SLA VE. 



TCTf 



O pilgrim souls, I speak to you ! 

I see you come out proud and slow 
From the land of the spirits pale as 
dew . . 

And round me and round me you go ! 
O pilgrims, I have gasped and run 
All night long from the whips of one 

Who in your names works sin and 



And thus I thought that 1 would come 
And kneel here where ye knelt before. 

And feel your souls around me hum 
In undertone to the ocean's roar ; 

And lift my black face, my black hand. 

Here, in your names, to curse this land 
Ye blessed in freedom's evermore. 



I am black, 1 am black ; 

And yet God made me, they say. 
But if he did so, smiling back 

He must have cast his work away 
Under the feet of his white creatures, 
With a look of scorn, — that the dusky 
features 

Might be trodden again to clay. 



And yet He ha', made dark things 

To be glad and merry as light. 
There's a little dark bird, sits and sings ; 
There's a dark stream ripples out of 
sight ; 
And the dark frogs chant in the safe 

morass. 
And the sweetest stars are made to pass 
O'er the face of the darkest night. 



But zue who are dark, we are dark ! 

Ah God, we have no stars ! 
About our souls in care and cark 

Our blackness shuts like prison-bars : 
The poor souls crouch so far behind. 
That never a comfort can they find 

By reaching through the prison-bars. 

VII. 

Indeed we live beneath the sky. 

That great smooth Hand of God 
stretched out 



On ^1 His children fatherly. 

To save them from the dread and 
doubt 
Which would be, if. from this low place, 
All opened straight up to His face 

Into the grand eternity. 



And still God's sunshine and His frost. 

They make us hot, they make us cold. 
And if we were not black and lost : 
And the beasts and birds, in wood and 
fold. 
Do fear and take us for very men 1 
Could the weep-poor-will or the cat of 
the glen 
Look into my eyes and be bold 1 



I am black, I am black ! — 

But, once I laughed in girlish glee ; 
For one of my color stood in the track 
Where the drivers drove, and looked 
at me — 
And tender and full was the look he 

gave : 
Could a slave look so at another 
slave ? — 
I look at the sky and the sea. 



And from that hour our spirits grew 
As free as if unsold, unbought : 

Oh, strong enough, since we were two. 
To conquer the world we tSiought ! 

The drivers drove us day by day ; 

We did not mind, we went one way 
And no better a freedom sought. 



In the sunny ground between the canes. 

He said ' I love you ' as he passed : 
When the shingle-roof rang sharp with 
the rains, 
I heard how he vowed it fast : 
While others shook he smiled in the hut 
As he carved me a bowl of the cocoa- 
nut 
Through the roar of the hurricanes. 



I sang his name instead of a song ; 
Over and over I sang his name — 



2o8 



THE RUN A IV A Y SLA VE. 



Upward and downward I drew it along 
My various notes ; the same, the 
same ! 
I sang it low, that the slave girls near 
Might never guess from aught they 
could hear. 
It was only a name — a name. 

XIII. 

I look on the sky and the sea — 

We were two to love, and two to 
pray,— 

Yes, two, O God, who cried to Thee, 
Though nothing didst Thou say. 

Coldly Thou sat'st behind the sun ! 

And now I cry who am but one. 
Thou wilt speak to-day. — 



We were black, »we were black ! 

We had no claim to love and bliss : 
What marvel, if each went to wrack ? 
They wrung my cold hands out of 
his, — 
They dragged him . . where ? . . I 

crawled to touch 
His blood's mark in the dust ! . . not 
much, 
Ye pilgrim-souls, . . though plain as 
this ! 



Wrong followed by a deeper wrong ! 

Mere grief's too good for such as I. 
So the white men brought the shame ere 
long 

To strangle the sob of my agony. 
They would not leave me for my dull 
Wet eyes ! — it was too merciful 

To let me weep pure tears and die. 

XVI. 

I am black, I am black ! 

I wore a child upon my breast . . 
An amulet that hung too slack, 

And, in my unrest, could not rest : 
Thus we went moaning, child and 

mother 
One to another, one to another, 

Until all ended for the best : 



For hark ! I will tell you low . . low . . 

I am black, you see, — 
And the babe who lay on my bosom so. 
Was far too white . too white for 
me ; 
As white as the ladies who scorned to 

pray 
Beside me at church but yesterday : 
Though my tears had washed a place 
for my knee. 



My own, own child ! I could not bear 
To look in his face, it was so white. 

I covered him up with a kerchief there ; 
I covered his face in close and tight ; 

And he moaned and struggled, as well 
might be. 

For the white child wanted his liberty — 
Ha, ha ! he wanted the master right. 

XIX. 

He moaned and beat with his head and 
feet, 
His little feet that never grew — 
He struck them out, as it was meet, 

Against my heart to break it through. 
I might have sung and made him mild — 
But I dared not sing to the white-faced 
child 
The only song I knew. 



I pulled the kerchief very close : 

He (fculd not see the sun, I swear 
More, then, alive, than now he does 
From between the root.s of the man- 
go .. . where ? 
I know where. Close ! a child and 
mother 
Do wrong to look at one another, 
When one is black and one is fair. 



Why, in that single glance I had 
Of my child's face, . . 1 tell you all, 

I saw a look that made me mad . . 
The master's look, that used to fall 

On my soul like his lash . or worse !— 

And so, to save it from my curse, 
I twisted it round in my shawl. 



THE R UNA IV A \ ' SLA VE. 



■09 



XXII. 

And he moaned and trembled from foot 
to head, 

He shivered from head to foot ; 
Till, after a time, he lay mstead 

Too suddenly still and mute. 
I felt beside a stiffening cold . . 
I dared to lift up just a fold, . . 

As in lifting a leaf of the mango-fruit. 

XXIII. 

But my fruit . . ha, ha ! — there had been 

{I laugh to think on't at this hour ! . .) 

Your fine white angels, who have seen 

Nearest the secret of God's power, . . 

And plucked my fruit to make them 

wine. 
And sucked the soul of that child of 
mine. 
As the humming-bird sucks the soul 
of the flower. 



Ha, ha, the trick of the angels white ! 

They freed the white child's spirit so. 
I said not a word, but, day and night, 

I carried the body to and fro ; 
And it lay on my heart like a stone . . 

as chill. 
— ^The sun may shine out as much as he 
will : 
I am cold, though it happened a 
month ago. 

XXV. 

From the white man's house, and the 
black man's hut, 

I carried the little body on. 
The forest's arms did round us shut. 

And silence through the trees did run : 
They asked no question as I went, — 
They stood too high for astonishment, — 

They could see God sit on his throne. 

XXVI. 

My little body, kerchiefed fast, 

I bore it on through the forest . . on : 

And when I felt it was tired at last, 
I scooped a hole beneath the moon. 

Through the forest-tops the angels far. 

With a white shape finger from every 
star, 
Did point and mock at what was done. 



XXVII. 

Yet when it was all done aright, . . 
Earth, 'twixt me and my baby, 
strewed, . . 
All changed to black earth, . . nothing 
white, . . 
A dark child in the dark, — ensued 
Some comfort, and my heart grew 

young : 
I sate down smiling there and sung 
The song I learnt in my maidenhood. 

XXVIII. 

And thus we two were reconciled. 
The white child and black mother, 
thus : 

For, as I sang it soft and wild 
The same song, more melodious. 

Rose from the grave whereon I sate ! 

It was the dead child singing that. 
To join the souls of both of us. 



I look on the sea and the sky ! 

Where the pilgrims' ships first an- 
chored lay. 
The free sun rideth gloriously ; 

But the pilgrim -ghosts have slid away 
Through the earliest streaks of the mom. 
My face is black, but it glares with a 
scorn 
Which they dare not meet by day. 

XXX. 

Ah ! — in their 'stead, their hunter sons ! 
Ah, ah ! they are on me — they hunt 
in a ring — 
Keep off! I brave you all at once — 
I throw off your eyes like snakes that 
sting ! 
You have killed the black eagle at. nest, 

I think : 
Did you never stand still in your tri- 
umph, and shrink 
From the stroke of her wounded 
wing ? 

XXXI. 

(Man, drop that stone you dared to 
lift !— ) 
I wish you who stand there five 
abreast, 



A CHILD'S GRAVE AT FLORENCE. 



Each, for his own wife's joy and gift, 

A little corpse as safely at rest 
As mine in the mangoes ! — Yes, but she 
May keep live babies on her knee, 
And sing the song she liketh best. 

xxxn. 
I am not mad : I am black. 

I see you staring in my face— 
I know you staring, shrinking back — 

Ye are born of the Washington-race : 
And this land is the free America : 
And this mark on my wrist , . (I prove 
what I say) 
Ropes tied me up here to the Hog- 
ging-place. 

XXXIII. 

You think I shrieked then? Not a 
sound ! 

1 hung, as a gourd hangs in the sun. 
I only cursed them all around. 

As softly as I might have done 
My very own child !— From these sands 
Up to the mountains, lift your hands, 

O slaves, and end what I begun ! 

XXXIV. 

Whips, curses ; those must answer those ! 

For in this Union, you have set 
Two kinds of men in adverse rows. 

Each loathing each : and all forget 
The seven wounds in Christ's body fair ; 
While He sees gaping everywhere 

Our countless wounds that pay no 
debt. 

XXXV. 

Our wounds are different. Your white 
men 
Are, after all, not gods mdeed. 
Nor able to make Christs again 

Do good with bleeding. We who 
bleed . , , 

(Stand off !) w^ help not in our loss ! 
We are too heavy for our cross. 
And fall and crush you and your seed. 



I fall. I swoon ! 1 look at the sky : 

The clouds are breaking on my bram ; 
I am floated along as if I should die 



Of liberty's exquisite pain — 
In the name of the white child waiting 

for me 
In the death-dark where we may kiss 

and agree. 
White men, I leave you all curse-free 
In my broken heart's disdain ! 



A CHILD'S GRAVE AT FLOR 
ENCE. 

A. A. E. C. 
Born July, 1S48. Diki> Novkmbkr, 1849. 

Of English blood, of Tuscan birth, . . 

What country should we give her ? 
Instead of any on the earth. 

The civic Heavens receive her. 



Ana here, among the English tombs. 
In Tuscan ground we lay her. 

While the blue Tuscan sky endomes 
Our English words of prayer. 



A little child !— how long she lived. 
By months, not years, is reckoned ; 

Born in one July, she survived 
Alone to see a second. 



Bright-featured, as the July sun 
Her little face still played in. 

And splendours, with her birth begun. 
Had had no time for fading. 



So. Lily, from those July hours. 
No wonder we should call her : 

She looked such kinship to the flowers. 
Was but a little taller. 



A Tuscan Lily, only white . . 

As Dante, in abhorrence 
Of red corruption, wished aright 

The lilies of his Florence. 



A CHILD'S GRAFE AT FLORENCE. 



We could not wish her whiter, . . Her 
Who perfumed with pure blossom 

The house I — a lovely thmg to wear 
Upon a mother's bosom ! 



This July creature thought perhaps 
Our speech not worth assuming : 

She sate upon her parents' laps. 

And mimicked the gnat's humming ; 



. . Said ' Father,' ' Mother ! '—then left 
off; 

For tongues celestial, fitter. 
Her hair had grown just long enough 

To catch Heaven's jasper-glitter. 



Babes ! Love could always hear and see 
Behind the cloud that hid them ; 

' Let little children come to me, 
And do not thou forbid them.' 



So, unforbidding we have met, 
And gently here have laid her ; 

Though winter is no time to get 

The flowers that should o'erspread 
her. 



We should bring pansies quick with 
spring. 

Rose, violet, daffodilly, 
And also, above everything. 

White lilies for our Lily. 

XIII. 

Nay, more than flowers, this grave 
exacts , . 

Glad, grateful attestations 
Of her sweet eyes and pretty acts. 

With calm renunciations. 



Her very mother with light feet 
Should leave the place too earthy. 

Saying, 'The angels have thee, sweet. 
Because we arc not worthy.' 



But winter kills the orange-buds. 
The gardens in the frost are ; 

And all the heart dissolves in floods. 
Remembering we have lost her ! 



Poor earth, poor heart ! — too weak, too 
weak. 
To miss the July shining ! 
Poor heart ! — what bitter words we 

speak, 
When God speaks of resigning 1 



Sustain this heart in us that faints. 
Thou God, the self-existent ! 

We catch up wild at parting saints. 
And feel thy Heaven too distant ! 

XVIII. 

The wind that swept them out of sin. 
Has ruffled all our vesture : 

On the shut door that let them in. 
We beat with frantic gesture ; 



To us, us also — open straight ! 

The outer life is chilly — 
Are 7ve too, like the earth to wait 

Till next year for our Lily ? 



— Oh, my own baby on my knees. 
My leaping, dimpled treasure. 

At every word I write like these. 

Clasped close, with stronger pressure ! 



Too well my own heart understands 
At every word beats fuller . . . 

My little feet, my little hands. 
And hair of Lily's colour ! 



— But God gives patience. Love learns 
strength, 

And Faith remembers promise ; 
And hope itself can smile at length 

On other hopes gone from us. 



A CHILD'S GRAVE AT FLORENCE. 



Love, strong as Dea,th, shall conquer 
Death, 

Though struggle, made more glorious : 
This mother stills her sobbing breath. 

Renouncing, yet victorious. 



Arms, empty of her child, she lifts. 

With spirit unbereaven — 
' God will not all take back His gifts 

My Lily's mine in Heaven 1 



Still mine, maternal rights serene 

Not given to another ! 
The crystal bars shine faint between 

The souls of child and mother. 

XXVI. 

' Meanwhile,' the mother cries, ' con- 
tent I 

Our love was well divided ; 
Its sweetness following where she went, 

Its anguish stayed where I did. 

xxvii. 
• Well done of God, to halve the lot. 

And give her all the sweetness ! 
To us the empty room and cot, — 

To her, the Heaven's completeness : 

XXVIII. 

To us, this grave — to her, the rows 
The mystic palm trees spring in : 



To us, the silence in the house, — 
To her, the choral singing ! 

XXIX. 

' For her to gladden in God's view, — 
For us to hope and bear on ! 

Grow, Lily, in thy garden new. 
Beside the Rose of Sharon. 

XXX. 

' Grow fast in Heaven, sweet Lily 
clipped. 

In love more calm than this is, — 
And may the angels dewy-lipped 

Remind thee of our kisses ! 

XXXI, 

' While none shall tell thee of our tears, 
These human tears now falling ; 

Till, after a few patient years. 
One home shall take us all in ; 

XXXII. 

' Child, father, mother — who, left out t 
Not mother, and not father ! — 

And when, their dying couch about. 
The natural mists shall gather, 

XXXIII. 

' Some smiling angel close shall stand 

In old Correggio's fashion. 
And bear a Lily in his hand. 

For death's annunciation.' 



LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 

A ROAIANCE OF THE AGE. 

A j^oet ivrites to his friend — Place — A roo>n in Wycombe Hall. Time — Late 
in the evening. 

Dear my friend and fellow-student, I would lean my spirit o'er you ; 
Down the purple of this chamber, tears should scarcely run at will : 
I am humbled who was humble 1 Friend, — 1 bow my head before you ! 
You should lead me to my peasants ! — but their faces are too still. 

There's a lady — an earl's daughter ; she is proud and she is noble : 
And she treads the crimson carpet, and she breathes the perfumed air ; 
And a kingly blood sends glances up her princely eye to trouble. 
And the shadow of a monarch's crown is softened in her hair. 

She lias halls among the woodlands, she has castles by the breakers. 
She has farms and she has manors, she can threaten and command. 
And the palpitating engines snort in steam across her acres, 
As they mark upon the blasted heaven the measure of her land. ■ 

There are none of England's daughters who can show a prouder presence ; 
Upon princely suitors praying, she has looked in her disdain : 
She has sprung of English nobles, I was born of English peasants ; 
What was /that I should love her — save for competence to pain ! 

I was only a poor poet, made for singing r.t her casement. 
As the finches or the thrushes, while she thought of other things. 
Oh, she walked so high above me, she appeared to my abasement, 
la her lovely silken murmur, like an angel clad in wings ! 

Many vassals bow before her as her carriage sweeps their door-ways ; 
She has blest their little children, — as a priest or queen were she. 
Far too tender or too cruel far, her smile upon the poor was. 
For I thought it was the same smile which she used to smile on me. 

She has voters in the commons, she has lovers in the palace — 

And of all the fair court-ladies, few have jewels half as fine : 

Oft the prince has named her beauty, 'twixt the red wine and the chalice : 

Oh, and what was /to love her ? my Beloved, my Geraldine ! 

Yet I could not choose but love her — I was born to poet uses — 
To love all things set above me, all of good and all of fair : 
Nymphs of mountain, not of valley, we are wont to call the Muses — 
And in nympholeptic climbing, poets pass from mount to star. 

And because I was a poet, and because the people praised me. 
With their critical deduction for the modern writer's fault ; 
I could sit at rich men's tables, — though the courtesies that raised me. 
Still suggested clear between us the pale spectrum of the salt. 



ai4 LADV CERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 

And they praised me in her presence : — ' Will your book appear this summer 1 
Then returning to each other — ' Yes, our plans are for the moors ; ' 
Then with whisper dropped behind me — ' There he is ! the latest comer ! 
Oh, she only likes his verses ! what is over, she endures. 

' Quite low born ! self-educated ! somewhat gifted though by nature, — 
And we make a point by asking him. — of being very kind ; 
You may speak, he does not hear you ; and besides, he writes no satire, — 
All these serpents kept by charmers, leave their natural sting behind.' 

I grew scornfuller, grew colder, as I stood up there among them. 
Till as frost intense will burn you, the cold scorning scorched my brow ; 
AVhen a sudden silver speaking, gravely cadenced, overrung them. 
And a sudden silken stirring touched my inner nature through. 

I looked upward and beheld her ! With a calm and regnant spirit. 
Slowly round she swept her eyelids, and said clear before them all — 
• Have you such superfluous honor, sir, that able to confer it 
You will come down, Mr. Bertram, as my guest to Wycombe Hall ? ' 

Here she paused, — she had been paler at the first word of her speaking ; 
But because a silence followed it, blushed somewhat, as for shame ; 
'I'hen, as scorning her own feeling, resumed calmly — ' I am seeking 
More distinction than these gentlemen think worthy of my claim. 

' Nevertheless, you see, I seek it — not because I am a woman,* 
(Here her smile sprang like a fountain, and, so, overflowed her mouth) 
' But because my woods in Sussex have some purple shades at gloaming 
Which are worthy of a king in state, or poet in his youth. 

' 1 invite you, Mr. Bertram, to no scene for worldly speeches — 

Sir, I scarce should dare — but only where God asked the thrushes first — 

And \\ you will sing beside them, in the covert of my beeches, 

I will thank you for the woodlands, . . . for the human world at worst.' 

Then she smiled around right childly, then she gazed around right queenly ; 
And I bowed — I could not answer ! Alternate light and gloom — 
While as one who quells the lions, with a steady eye serenely. 
She, with level fronting eyelids, passed out stately from the room. 

Oh, the blessed woods of Sussex, I can hear them still around me. 
With their leafy tide of greenery still rippling up the wind ! 
Oh, the cursed woods of Sussex ! where the hunter's arrow found me. 
When a fair face and a tender voice had made me mad and blind ! 

In that ancient hall of Wycombe, thronged the numerous guests invited. 
And the lovely London ladies trod the floors with gliding feet ; 
And their voices low with fashion, not with feeling, softly freighted 
All the air about the windows, with elastic laughters sweet. 

For at eve, the open windows flung their light out on the terrace. 
Which the floating orbs of curtains did with gradual shadow sweep ; 
While the swans upon the river, fed at morning by the heiress. 
Trembled downward through their snowy wings at music in their sleep. 



LADV GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 

And there evermore was music, both of instrument and singing ; 
Till the finches of the shrubberies grew restless in the dark ; 
But the cedars stood up motionless, each in a moonlight ringing. 
And the deer, half in the glimmer, strewed the hollows of the park. 

And though sometimes she would bind me with her silver-corded speeches. 

To commix my words and laughter with the converse and the jest. 

Oft I sat apart, and gazing on the river through the beeches. 

Heard, as pure the swans swam down it, her pure voice o'erfloat the rest. 

In the morning, horn of huntsman, hoof of steed, and laugh of rider. 
Spread out cheery from the court-yard till we lost them in the hills ; 
While herself and other ladies, and her suitors left beside her. 
Went a-wandering up the gardens through the laurels and abeles. 

Thus, her foot upon the new-mown grass — bareheaded — with the flowing 
Of the virginal white vesture gathered closely to her throat ; 
With the golden ringlets in her neck just quickened by her going. 
And appearing to breathe sun for air, and doubting if to float, — 

With a branch of dewy maple, which her right hand held above her. 
And which trembled a green shadow in betwixt her and the skies. 
As she turned her face in going, thus, she drew me on to love her. 
And to worship the divineness of the smile hid in her eyes. 

Frr her eyes alone smile constantly : her lips have serious sweetness, 
A nd her front is calm — the dimple rarely ripples on her cheek : 
But her deep blue eyes smile constantly, — as if they in discreetness 
Kept the secret of a happy dream she did not care to speak. 

Thus she drew me the first morning, out across into the garden : 
And I walked among her noble friends and could not keep behind ; 
Spake she unto all and unto me — ' Behold, I am the warden 
Of the song birds in these lindens, which are cages to their mind. 

' But within this swarded circle, into which the lime-walk brings us — 
Whence the beeches rounded greenly, stand away in reverent fear ; 
I will let no music enter, saving what the fountain sings us. 
Which the lilies round the basin may seem pure enough to hear. 

' The live air that waves the lilies waves this slender jet of water 

Like a holy thought sent feebly up from soul of fasting saint ! 

Whereby lies a marble Silence, sleeping ! (Lough the sculptor wrought her.) 

So asleep she is forgetting to say Hush ! — a fancy quaint ! 

' Mark how heavy white her eyelids ! not a dream between them lingers I 
And the left hand's index droppeth from the lips upon the cheek : 
And the right hand, — with the symbol rose held slack within the fingers, — 
Has fallen back within the basin — yet this Silence will not speak ! 

' That the essential meaning growing may exceed the special symbol. 
Is the thought as I conceive it : it applies more high and low. 
Our true noblemen will often through right nobleness grow humble. 
And assert an inward honor by denying outward show.' 



8i6 J,ADV GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 

' Nay, your Silence,' said I, ' truly holds her symbol rose but slackly. 
Yet she holds it — or would scarcely be a Silence to our ken ! 
And your nobles wear their ermine on the outside, or walk blackly 
In the presence of the social law as most ignoble men. 

' Let the poets drec"i such dreaming ! Madam, in these British Islands, 
'Tis the substance that wanes ever, 'tis the symbol that exceeds ; 
Soon we shall have nought but symbol ! and for statues like this Silence, 
Shall accept the rose's image — in another case, the weed's.* 

• Not so quickly !' she retorted, — ' I confess where'er you go, you 

Find for things, names — shows for actions, and pure gold for honor clear ; 

But when all is run to symbol in the Social, I will throw you 

The world's book which now reads drily, and sit down with Silence here.' 

Half in playfulness she spoke, I thought, and half in indignation ; 

Friends who listened laughed her words off while her lovers deemed her fair. 

A fair woman — flushed with feeling, in her noble-lighted station 

Near the statue's white reposing — and both bathed in sunny air ! 

With the trees round, not so distant but you heard their vernal murmur. 
And beheld in light and shadow the leaves in and outward move ; 
And the little fountain leaping toward the sun-heart to be warmer. 
And recoiling in a tremble from the too much light above. 

'Tis a picture for remembrance ! and thus, morning after morning. 

Did I follow as she drew me by the .spirit to her feet — 

Why, her grayhound followed also ! dogs — we both were dogs for scorning— 

To be sent back when she pleased it and her path lay through the wheat. 

And thus, morning after morning, spite of vows and spite of sorrow. 
Did I follow at her drawing, while the week-days passed along ; 
Tust to feed the swans this noontide, or to see the fawns to-morrow, 
'Or to teach the hill-side echo some sweet Tuscan in a song. 

Ay, for sometimes on the hill-side, while we .sat down in the gowans. 

With the forest green behind us, and its shadow cast before ; 

And the river running imder ; and across it from the rowans 

A brown partridge whirring near us, till we felt the air it bore — 

There, obedient to her praying, did I read aloud the poems 
?'!ade by Tuscan flutes, or instruments more various of our own ; 
P.ead the pastoral parts of Spenser — or the subtle uiterflowings 
Found in Petrarch's sonnets — here's the book — the leaf is folded down 1— 

Or at times a modern volume. — Wordsworth's solemn-thoughted idyl, 
ITowitt's ballad-verse, or Tennyson's enchanted reverie, — 
Or from Browning some ' Pomegranate,' which, if cut deep down the middle. 
Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity. 

Or at times I read there, hoarsely, some new poem of my making — 

Poets ever fail in reading their own verses to their worth. — 

For the echo in you breaks upon the words which you are speaking. 

And the chariot-wheels jar in the gate through which you drive them forth. 



LADV GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 217 

After, when we were grown tired of books, the silence round us flinging 
A slow arm of sweet compression, felt with beatings at the breast. 
She would break out on a sudden, in a gash of woodland singing. 
Like a child's emotion in a god — a naiad tired of rest. 

Oh, to see or hear her singing ! scarce I know which is divinest — 

For her looks sing too — she modulates her gestures on the tune ; 

And her mouth stirs with the song, like song ; and when the notes are finest, 

'Tis the eyes that shoot out vocal light and seem to swell them on. 

Then we talked — oh, how we talked ! her voice, so cadenced in the talking. 
Made another singing — of the soul ! a music without bars — 

While the leafy sounds of woodlands, humming round where we were walkings 
Brought interposition worthy sweet, — as skies about the stars. 

And she spake such good thoughts natural, as if she always thought them — 
And had sympathies so rapid, open, free as bird on branch 
Just as ready to fly east as west, whichever way besought them. 
In the birchen wood a chirrup, or a cock-crow in the grange. 

In her utmost Tightness there is truth — and often she speaks lightly. 
Has a grace in being gay, which even mournful souls approve. 
For the root of some grave earnest thought is under-struck so rightly. 
As to justify the foliage and the waving flowers above. 

And she talked on — lue talked, rather ! upon all things — substance — shadow— 
Of the sheep that browsed the grasses — of the reapers in the corn — 
Of the little children from the schools, seen winding through the meadow — 
Of the poor rich world beyond them, still kept poorer by its scorn. 

So of men, and so, of letters — books are men of higher stature. 
And the only men that speak aloud for future times to hear : 
So, of mankind in the abstract, which grows slowly into nature. 
Yet will lift the cry of ' progress,' as it trod from sphere to sphere. 

And her custom was to praise me when I said, — ' The Age culls simplea 
With a broad clown's back turned broadly to the glory of the stars — 
We are gods by our own reck'ning, — and may well shut up the temples, 
And wield on, amid the incense-steam, the thunder of our cars. 

' For we throw out acclamations of self-tlianking, self-admiring. 
With, at every mile run faster, — ' O the wondrous wondrous age,' 
Litde thinking if we work our souls as nobly as our iron. 
Or if angels will commend us at the goal of pilgrimage. 

•* Why, what is this patient entrance into nature's deep resources. 
But the child's most gradual learning to walk upright without bane? 
When we drive out from the cloud of steam, majestical white horses. 
Are we greater than the first men who led black ones by the mane % 

' If we trod the deeps of ocean, if we struck the stars in rising. 
If we wrapped the globe intensely with a one hot electric breath, 
Twere but power within our tether — no new spirit-power comprising 
And in life we were not greater men, nor bolder men in death,' 



ai8 LADY GERALDINE'S COURTSHIP, 

She was patient with my talking ; and I loved her — loved her certes. 
As I loved all Heavenly objects, with uplifted eyes and hands ! 
As I loved pure inspirations — loved the graces, loved the virtues. 
In a Love content with writing his owa name on desert sands. 

Or at least I thought so purely ! — thought no idiot Hope was raising 

Any crown to crown Love's silence — silent Love that sat alone — 

Out, alas ! the stag is like me — he, that tries to go on grazing 

With the great deep gun-wound in his neck, then reels with sudden moan. 

It was thus I reeled ! I told you that her hand had many suitors — 
But she smiles them down imperially, as Venus did the waves — 
And with such a gracious coldness, that they cannot press their futures 
On the present of her courtesy, which yieldingly enslaves. 

And this morning, as I sat alone within the inner chamber 
With the great saloon beyond it lost in pleasant thought serene — 
For I had been reading Camoens — that poem you remember. 
Which his lady's eyes are praised in, as the sweetest ever seen. 

And the book lay open, and my thought flew from it, taking from it 
A vibration and impulsion to an end beyond its own. 
As the branch of a green osier, when a child would overcome it. 
Springs up freely from his clasping and goes swinging in the sun. 

As I mused I heard a murmur, — it grew deep as it grew longer — 
Speakers using earnest language — ' Lady Geraldine, you zvould I' 
And I heard a voice that pleaded ever on, in accents stronger 
As a sense of reason gave it power to make its rhetoric good. 

Well I knew that voice — it was an earl's, of soul that matched his station- 
Soul completed into lordship — might and right read on his brow : 
Very finely courteous — far too proud to doubt his domination 
Of the common people, — he atones for grandeur by a bow. 

High straight forehead, nose of eagle, cold blue eyes, of less expression 

Than resistance, coldly casting off the looks of other men. 

As steel, arrows, — unelastic lips, which seem to taste possession. 

And be cautious lest the common air should injure or distrain. 

For the rest, accomplished, upright — ay, and standing by his order 
With a bearing not ungraceful ; fond of art, and letters too ; 
Just a good man made a proud man, — as the sandy rocks that border 
A wild coast, by circumstances, in a regnant ebb and flow. 

I'hus I knew that voice — I heard it — and I could not help the hearkening : 
In the room I stood up blindly, and my burning heart within 
Seemed to seethe and fuse my senses, till they ran on all sides darkening. 
And scorched, weighed like melted metal round my feet that stood therein. 

And that voice, I heard it pleading, for love's sake — for wealth, position. 

For the sake of liberal uses, and great actions to be done— 

And she interrupted gently, ' Nay, my lord, the old tradition 

Of your Normans, by some worthier hand than mine is, should be won.' 



LADV CERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 

' Ah, that white hand,' he said quickly, — and in his he either drew it 
Or attempted — for with gravity and instance she replied — 
' Nay, indeed, my lord, this talk is vain, and we had best eschew it. 
And pass on like friends, to other points less easy to decide.' 

What he said again, I know not. It is likely that his trouble 
Worked his pride up to the surface, for she answered in slow scorn — 
• And your lordship judges rightly. Whom I marry, shall be noble. 
Ay, and wealthy. I shall never blush to think how he was born.' 

There, I maddened ! her words stung me ! Life swept through me into fever, 

And my soul sprang up astonished ; sprang full-statured in an hour : 

Know you what it is when anguish, with apocalyptic never. 

To a Pythian height dilates you, — and despair sublimes to power 1 

From my brain the soul-wings budded ! — waved a flame about my body. 
Whence conventions coiled to ashes : I felt self-drawn out. as man. 
From amalgamate false natures ; and I saw the skies grow ruddy 
With the deepening feet of angels, and I knew what spirits can. 

I was mad — inspired — say either ! anguish worketh inspiration 
Was a man or beast — perhaps so ; for the tiger roars when speared r 
And I walked on, step by step, along the level of my passion — 
Oh my soul ! and passed the doorway to her face, and never feared. 

He had left her, — peradventure, when my footstep proved my coming — 
But for her — she half arose, then sat — grew scarlet and grew pale : 
Oh she trembled ! — 'tis so always with a worldly man or woman 
In the presence of true spirits — what else can they do but quail ? 

Oh, she fluttered like a tame bird, in among its forest brothers 
Far too strong for it ! then drooping, bowed her faca upon her hands — 
And I spake out wildly, fiercely, brutal truths of her and others ! 
/, she planted in the desert, swathed her, windlikc, with my sands. 

I plucked up her social fictions, bloody-rooted though leaf-verdant, 
Trod them down with words of shaming, — all the purple and the gold. 
All the ' landed stakes ' and lordships — all that spirits pure and ardent 
Are cast out of love and honor because chancing not to hold. 

■* For myself I do not argue, said I, ' though I love you, madam ; 
But for better souls that nearer to the height of yours have trod. 
And this age shows to my thinking, still more infidels to Adam, 
Than directly, by profession, simple infidels to God. 

'Yet, O God,' I said, ' O grave,' I said, ' O mother's heart and bosom. 
With whom first and last are equal, saint and corpse and little child ! 
We are fools to your deductions, in these figments of heart-closing ! 
We are traitors to your causes, in these sympathies defiled ! 

' Learn more reverence, madam, not for rank or wealth — that needs-no learning 
Thai comes quickly — quick as sin does, ay, and culminates to sin ; 
But for Adam's seed, man ! Trust me, 'tis a clay above your scorning. 
With God's image stamped upon it, and God's kindling breath within. 



220 LADY CERALDINE'S COURTSHIP. 

' What right have you, madam, gazing in your palace mirror daily. 
Getting so by heart your beauty which all others must adore, 
While you draw the golden ringlets down your fingers, to vow gaily 
You will wed no man that's only good to God, — and nothing more ? 

' Why, what right have you, made fair by that same God — the sweetest womnn 
Of all women He has fashioned — with your lovely spirit-face. 
Which would seem too near to vanish if its smile were not so human. 
And your voice of holy sweetness, turning common words to grace, 

' What right can you have, God's other works to scorn, despise, revile them 

In the gross, as mere men, broadly — not as noble men, forsooth, — 

As mere Parias of the outer world, forbidden to assoil them 

In the hope of living, dying, near that sweetnees of your mouth ? 

* Have you any answer, ma lam ? If my spirit were less earthly. 
If its instrument were gifted with a better silver string, 

I would kneel down where I stand, and say — Behold me ! I am worthy 
Of thy loving, for I love thee ! I am worthy as a king. 

' As it is — your ermined pride, I swear, shall feel this stain upon her — 
'J'liat /, poor, weak, tost with passion, scorned by me and you again. 
Love you. Madam — dare to love you — to my grief and your dishonor — 
To my endless desolation, and your impotent disdain !' 

More mad words like these — more madness ! friend, I need not write them fuller 
And I hear my hot soul dropping on the lines in showers of tears — 
Oh, a woman ! friend, a woman ! Why, a beast had scarce been duller 
Than roar bestial loud complaints against the shining of the spheres. 

But at last there came a pause. I stood all vibrating with thunder 
Which my soul had used. Ihe silence drew her face up like a call. 
Could you guess what word she uttered ? She looked up, as if in wonder. 
With tears beaded on her lashes, and said ' Bertram !' it was all. 

If she had cursed me — and she might have — or if even, with queenly bearing 
Which at needs is used by women, she had risen up and said, 

* Sir, you are my guest, and therefore I have given you a full hearing — 
Now, beseech you, choose a name exacting somewhat less instead' — 

I had borne it ! — but that ' Bertram' — why it lies there on the paper 
A mere word, without her accent, — and you cannot judge the weight 
Of the calm which crushed my passion ! I seemed drowning in a vapor, — 
And her gentleness destroyed me whom her scorn made desolate. 

So, struck backward and exhausted by that inward flow of passion 
Which had rushed on, sparing nothing, into forms of abstract truth. 
With a logic agonizing through unseemly demonstration. 
And with youth's own anguish turning grimly gray the hairs of youth, — 

By the sense accursed and instant, that if even I spake wisely 
I spake basely — using truth, — if what I spake indeed was true — 
To avenge wrong on a woman — her, who sat there weighing nicely 
A full manhood's worth, found (juilty of such deeds as I could do 1 — 



LADV GERALDIXE'S COURTSHIP. 

With such wrong and wo exhausted — what 1 suffered and occasioned, 

As a wild horse through a city runs with Hghtning in his eyes. 
And then dashing at a church's cold and passive wall, impassioned. 
Strikes the death into his burning brain, and blindly drops and dies — 

So I fell, struck down before her ! Do you blame me friend, for weakness' 
'Twas my strength of passion slew me ! — fell before her like a stone ; 
Fast the dreadful world rolled from me, on its roaraig wheels of blackness! 
When the light came I was lying in this chamber — and alone. 

Oh, of course, she charged her lacqueys to bear out the sickly burden. 
And to cast it from her scornful sight — but not beyond \h& gate — 
She was too kind to be cruel, and too haughty not to pardon 
Such a man as I — 'twere something to be level to her hate. 

But for 7ne — you now are conscious why, my friend, I write this letter. 
How my life is read all backward, and the charm of life undone ! 
I shall leave her house at dawn — I would to-night, if I were better — 
And I charge my soul to hold my body strengthened for the sun. 

When the sun has dyed the oriel, I depart with no last gazes. 
No weak moanings — one word only left m writing for her hands. 
Out of reach of all derision, and some unavailing praises. 
To make front against this anguish in the far and foreign lands. 

Blame me not, I would not squander life in grief — I am abstemious : 
I but nurse my spirit's falcon, that its wings may soar again : 
There's no room for tears of weakness in the blind eyes of a Phemius : 
Into work the poet kneads them, — and he does not die till then. 



CONCLUSION. 

Bertram finished the last pages, while along the silence ever 
Still in hot and heavy splashes, fell the tears on every leaf: 
Having ended, he leans backward in his chair, with lips that quiver 
From the deep unspoken, ay, and deep unwritten thoughts of grief. 

Soh ! how still the lady standeth ! 'tis a dream ! — a dream of mercies ! 
'Twixt the purple lattice -curtains, how she standeth still and pale I 
'Tis a vision, sure, of mercies, sent to soften his self-curses — 
Sent to sweep a patient quiet o'er the tossing of his wail. 

' Eyes,' he said, ' now throbbing through me ! are ye eyes that did undo me ? 
Shining eyes, like antique jewels set in Parian statue-stone ! 
Underneath that calm white forehead, are ye ever burning torrid 
O'er the desolate sand-desert of my heart and life undone?" 

With a murmurous stir uncertain, in the air, the purple curtain 
Swelleth in and swelleth out around her motionless pale brows ; 
While the gliding of the river sends a rippling noise for ever 
Through the open casement whitened by the moonlight's slant repose. 



233 LAD y GERALDINE 'S COUR TSHIF. ■ 

Said he — ' Vision of a lady ! stand there silent, stand there steady I 
Now I see it plainly, plainly ; now I cannot hope or doubt — 
There, the brows of mild repression — there, the lips of silent passion, 
Curved like an archer's bow to send the bitter arrows out.' 

Ever, evermore the while in a slow silence she kept smiling. 
And approached him slowly, slowly, in a gliding measured pace ; 
"With her two white hands extended, as if praying one offended. 
And a look of supplication, gazing earnest in his face. 

Said he — ' Wake me by no gesture, — soimd of breath, or stir of vesture ; 
Let the blessed apparition melt not yet to its divine ! 

No approaching — hush ! no breathing ! or my heart must swoon to death in 
That too utter life thou bringest — O thou dream of Geraldine !' 

Ever, evermore the while in a slow silence she kept smiling — 
But the tears ran over lightly from her eyes, and tenderly ; 
' Dost thou, Bertram, truly love me ? Is no woman far above me 
Found more worthy of thy poet-heart than such a one as I ?' 

Said he — ' I would dream so ever, like the flowing of that river. 

Flowing ever in a shadow greenly onward to the sea ; 

So, thou vision of all sweetness — princely to a full completeness, — 

Would my heart and life flow onward— -deathward — through this dream ofTHEKl' 

Ever, evermore the while in slow silence she kept smiling. 
While the silver tears ran faster down the bliushing of her cheeks ; 
Then with both her hands enfolding both of his, she softly told him, 
' Bertram, if I say I love thee, . . . 'tis the vision only speaks.' 

Softened, quickened to adore her, on his knee he fell before her — 
And she whispered low in triumph — ' It shall be as I have sworn ! 
Very rich he is in virtues, — very noble — noble, certes ; 
And I shall not blush in knowing that men call him lowly bom l' 



LORD WALTER'S WIFE. 

•But why do you go ? ' said the lady, while both sate under the yew. 
And her eyes were alive ui their depth, as the kraken beneath the sea-bltt«. 

• Because 1 fear you,' he answered ; ' because you are far too fair, 
And able to strangle my soul in a mesh of your gold-colored hair.' 

' Oh, that,' she said ' is no reason ! Such knots are quickly undone. 
And too much beauty, I reckon, is nothing but too much sun.' 

• Yet, farewell so,' he answered ; — ' the sun-stroke's fatal at times. 

I value your husband. Lord Walter, whose gallop rings still from the limes.' 

' Oh, that,* she said, ' is no reason. You smell a rose through a fence : 

If two should smell it, what matter ? who grumbles, and where's the pretenc* T 

' But I,' he replied, ' have promised another, when love was free. 
To love her alone, alone, who alone and afar loves me.' 

' Why, that, she said, ' is no reason. Love's always free, I am told. 

Will you vow to be safe from the headache on Tuesday, and think it will hold ! ' 

•But you,' he replied, ' have a daughter, a young little child, who was laid 
In your lap to be pure ; so I leave you : the angels would make me afraid.' 

' Oh, that,' she said, ' is no reason. The angels keep out of the way ; 

And Dora, the child, observes nothing, although you should please me and stay.' 

At which he rose up in his anger, — ' Why, now, you no longer are fair! 
Why, now, you no longer are fatal, but ugly and hateful, I swear.' 

At which she laughed out in her scorn,—' These men ! Oh, these men overnic«. 
Who are shocked if a color not virtuous, is frankly put on by a vice.' 

Her eyes blazed upon him — ' And you ! You bring us your vices so near 
That we smell them ! You think in our presence a thought 'twould defame us to 
hear ! 

• What reason had you, and what right, — I appeal to your soul from my life, — 
To find me too fair as a woman ? Why, sir, I am pure, and a wife. 

' Is the day-star too fair up above you ? It burns you not. Dare you imply 
1 brushed you more close than the star does, when Walter had set me as high ? 

• If a man finds a woman too fair, he means simply adapted too much 
To uses unlawful and fatal. The praise ! — shall I thank you for such ? 



224 LORD WALTER'S WIFE. 

•Too fair ! — not unless you misuse us 1 and surely if, once in a while. 
You attain to it, straightway you call us no longer too fair, but too vile. 

' A moment, — I pray your attention ! — I have a poor word in my head 
I must utter, though womanly custom would set it down better unsaid. 

* You grew, sir, pale to impertinence, once when I showed you a ring. 
You kissed my fan when I dropped it. No matter ! — I've broken the thing. 

* You did me the honor, perhaps, to be moved at my side now and then 

In the senses — avice, I have heard, which is common to beasts and some men. 

' Love's a virtue for heroes ! — as white as the snow on high hills. 
And immortal as every great soul is that struggles, endures and fulfils. 

' I love my Walter profoundly, — you, Maud, though you faltered a week. 
For the sake of . . what was it ? an eyebrow ? or, still less, a mole on a cheek ? 

' And since, when all's said, you're too noble to stoop to the frivolous cant 
About crimes irresistible, virtues that swindle, betray and supplant, 

' I determined to prove to yourself that, whate'er you might dream or avow. 
By illusion, you wanted precisely no more of me than you have now. 

'There! Look me in the face ! — in the face. Understand, if you can. 
That the eyes of such women as I am, are clean as the palm of a man. 

' Drop his hand, you insult him. Avoid us for fear we should cost you a scar — 
You take us for harlots, I tell you, and not for the women we are. 

' You wronged me : but then I considered . . . there's Walter ! And so at the 

end, 
I vowed that he should not be mulcted, by me, in the hand of ;\ friend. 

' Have I hurt you indeed ? We are quits then. Nay, friend of my Walter, be 

mine ! 
Come, Dora, my darling, my angel, and help me to ask him to din«.' 



TRANSLATIONS. 



SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 



I THOUGHT once how Theocritus had 

sung 
Of the sweet years, the dear and wished- 

for years. 
Who each one in a gracious hand 

appears 
To bear a gift for mortals, old or young : 
And, as I mused it in his antique tongue, 
I saw in gradual vision through my 

tears. 
The sweet, sad years, the melancholy 

years, 
Those of my own life, who by turns had 

flung 
A shadow across me. Straightway I 

was 'ware. 
So weeping, how a mystic Shape did 

move 
Behind me, and drew me backward by 

the hair ; 
And a voice said in mastery while I 

strove, . . 
' Guess now who holds thee ?' — ' Death !' 

I said. But there. 
The silver answer rang . . ' Not Death, 

but Love.' 



But only three in all God's universe 
Have heard this word thou hast said : 

Himself, beside 
Thee speaking and me listening ! and 

replied 
One of us . . that was God ! . . and laid 

the curse 
So darkly on my eyelids as to amerce 
RIy sight from seeing thee, — that if I 

had died. 
The death weights placed there, would 

have signified 
Less absolute exclusion. ' Nay is 

worse 
From God than from all others, O my 

friend I 



Men could not part us with their worldly 
jars, 

Nor the seas change us, nor the tem- 
pests bend : 

Our hands would touch for all the 
mountain-bars : — 

And, heaven being rolled between us 
at the end. 

We should but vow the faster for the 
stars. 



Uniike are we, unlike, O princely 

Heart! 
Unlike our uses and our desdnies. 
Our ministering two angels look sur- 
prise 
On one another, as they strike athwart 
Their wings in passing. Thou, bethink 

thee, art 
A guest for queens to social pageantries. 
With gazes from a hundred brighter 

eyes 
Than tears even can make mine, to ply 

thy part 
Of chief musician. What hast thou to 

do 
With looking from the lattice-lights at 

me, 
A poor, tired, wandering singer? . . 

singing through 
The dark, and leaning up a cypress 

tree ? 
The chrism is on thine head, — on mine, 

the dew, — 
And death must dig the level where 

these agree. 

IV. 

Thou hast thy calling to some palace 

floor. 
Most gracious singer of high poems! 

where 
The dancers will break footing from the 

care 



326 



TRANSLATIONS. 



Of watching up thy pregnant lips for 

more. 
And dost thou lift this house's latch too 

poor 
For hand of thine ? and canst thou think 

and bear 
To let thy music drop here unaware 
In folds of golden fulness at my door ? 
Look up and see the casement broken in. 
The bats and awlets builders in the roof! 
My cricket chirps against thy mandolin. 
Hash ! call no echo up in further proof 
Of desolation ! there's a voice withm 
That weeps. .. as thou must sing. . alone 

aloof. 

V. 

I LIFT my heavy heart up solemnly. 
As once Electra her sepulchral urn. 
And looking in thine eyes, 1 overturn 
The ashes at thy feet. Behold and see 
What a great heap of grief lay hid in 

me, 
And how the red wild sparkles dimly 

burn 
Through the ashen greyness. If thy 

foot in scorn 
Could tread them out to darkness 

utterly. 
It might be well perhaps. But if in- 
stead 
Thou wait beside me for the wind to 

blow 
The grey dust up, . . . those laurels on 

thine head, 
O My beloved, will not shield thee so. 
That none of all the fires shall scorch 

and shred 
The hair beneath. Stand farther off 

then ! Go. 



Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall 

stand 
Henceforward in- thy shadow. Never- 
more 
Alone upon the threshold of my door 
Of individual life, I shall command 
The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand 
Serenely in the sunshine as before. 
Without the sense of that which I for- 
bore, . . 
Thy touch upon the palm. The widest 
land 



I Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart 

in mine 
With pulses that beat double. What I 

do 
And what I dream include thee, as the 

wine 
Must taste of its own grapes. And when 

I sue 
God for myself. He hears that name of 

thine. 
And sees within my eyes, the tears of 

two. 



The face of all the world is changed, I 

think. 
Since first I heard the footsteps of thy 

soul 
Move still, oh, still, beside me ; as they 

stole 
Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink 
Of obvious death, where I who thought 

to sink 
Was caught up into love and taught the 

whole 
Of life in a new rhythm. The cup of 

dole 
God gave for baptism, I am fain to drink. 
And praise its sweetness, sweet, with 

thee anear. 
The name of country, heaven, are 

changed away 
For where thou art or shalt be, there or 

here ; 
And this . . this lute and song . . loved 

yesterday, 
(The singing angels know) are only 

dear. 
Because thy name moves right in what 

they say. 



What can I give thee back, O liberal 
And princely giver, . . who has brought 

the gold 
And purple of thine heart, unstained, 

untold, 
And laid them on the outside of the 

wall 
For such as I to take or leave withal. 
In imexpected largesse ? Am I cold. 
Ungrateful, that for these most mani- 
fold 
High gifts, I render nothing back at all ? 



TRANSLA TIONS. 



227 



Not so. Not cold ! — but very poor in- 
stead ! 

Ask God who knows I for frequent tears 
have run 

The colours from my life, and left so 
dead 

And pale a stuff, it were not fitly done 

To give the same as pillow to thy head. 

Go farther ! Let it serve to trample on. 



Cam it be right to give what I can give ? 
To let thee sit beneath the fall of tears 
As salt as mine, and hear the sighing 

years 
Re-sighing on my lips renunciative 
Through those infrequent smiles which 

fail to live 
For all thy adjurations ? O my fears. 
That this can scarce be right ! We are 

not peers. 
So to be lovers ; and I own and grieve 
That givers of such gifts as mine are, 

must 
Be counted with the imgenerous. Out, 

alas ! 
I will not soil thy purple with my dust. 
Nor breathe my poison on thy Venice- 
glass. 
Nor give thee any love . . which were 

unjust. 
Beloved, I only love thee ! let it pass. 



Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful in- 
deed 
And worthy of acceptatiou. Fire is 

bright, 
Let temple burn, or flax ! An equal 

light 
Leaps in the flame from cedar-plank or 

weed. 
And love is fire : and when I say at 

need 
/ love thee . . mark ! . . / lff7/e thee / . . 

in thy sight 
I stand transfigured, glorified aright. 
With conscience of the new rays that 

proceed 
Out of my face toward thine. There's 

nothing low 
In love, when love the lowest : meanest 

creatures 



Who love God, God accepts while lov- 
ing so. 

And what l/eel, across the inferior fea- 
tures 

Of what I «;«, doth flash itself, and 
show 

How that great work of Love enhances 
Nature's. 



And therefore if to love can be desert, 
I am not all unworthy. Cheeks as pale 
As these you see, and trembling knees 

that fail 
To bear the burden of a heavy heart. 
This weary minstrel-life that once was 

girt 
To climb Aornus, and can scarce avail 
To pipe now 'gainst the valley nightin- 
gale 
A melancholy music ! . . why advert 
To these things ? O Beloved, it is plain 
I am not of thy worth nor for thy place : 
And yet because I love thee, I obtain 
From that same love this vindicating 

grace. 
To live on still in love and yet in vain, . . 
To bless thee yet renounce thee to thy 
face. 



LvDEED this very love which is my 

boast. 
And which, when rising up from breast 

to brow, 
Doth crown me with a ruby large enow 
To draw men's eyes and prove the inner 

cost, . . 
This love even, all my worth, to the 

uttermost, 
I should not love withal, unless that thou 
Hadst set me an example, shown me 

how, 
When first thine earnest eyes with mine 

were crossed. 
And love called love. And thus, I can- 
not speak 
Of love even, as a good thing of my 

own. 
Thy soul hath snatched up mine all faint 

and weak. 
And placed it by thee on a golden 

throne, — 



228 



TRANSLA rrONS. 



And that I love, (O soul, we must be 

meek !) 
Is by thee only, whom I love alone. 



And wilt thou have me fashion into 

speech 
The love I bear thee, finding words 

enough, 
And hold the torch out, while the winds 

are rough. 
Between our faces to cast light on 

each ?— 
I drop it at thy feet. I cannot teach 
My hand to hold my spirit so far off 
From myself . . me . . that I should 

bring thee proof 
In words, of love hid in me out of reach. 
Nay, let the silence of my womanhood 
Commend my woman-love to thv be- 
lief.- ^ 
Seeing that I stand unwon, however 

wooed. 
And rend the garment of my life in 

brief, 
By a most dauntless, voiceless fortitude, 
Lest one touch of this heart convey its 

grief, 

XIV. 

If thou must love me, let it be for 

nought 
Except for love's sake only. Do not 

say 
• I love her for her smile . . her look . . 

her way 
Of speaking gently, , . for a trick of 

thought 
That falls in well with mine, and certes 

brought 
A sense of pleasant ease on such a 

day' — 
For these things in themselves. Beloved, 

may 
Be changed, or change for thee, — and 

love so wrought, 
May be unwrought so. Neither love 

me for 
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks 

dry ; 
A creature might forget to weep, who 

bore 
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love 

thereby. 



But love me for love's sake, that ever- 
more 

Thou may'st love on through love's eter- 
nity. 

XV. 

Accuse me not, beseech thee, that I 

wear 
Too calm and sad a face in front of 

thine ; 
For we two look two ways, and cannot 

shine 
With the same sunlight on cur brow 

and hair. 
On me thou lookest with no doubting 

care. 
As on a bee shut in a crystalline, — 
For sorrow hath shut me safe in love's 

divine. 
And to spread wing and fly in the outer 

air 
Were most impossible failure, if I strove 
To fail so. But I look on thee . . on 

thee . . 
Beholding, besides love, the end of love. 
Hearing oblivion beyond memory . . . 
As one who sits and gazes from above. 
Over the rivers to the bitter sea. 



And yet, because thou overcomest so, 
Because thou art more noble and like a 

king. 
Thou canst prevail against my fears and 

fling 
Thy purple round me, till my heart 

shall grow 
Too close against thine heart, henceforth 

to know 
How it shook when alone. Why, con- 
quering 
May prove as lordly and complete a 

thing 
In lifting upward as in crushing low : 
And as a vanquished soldier yields his 

sword 
To one who lifts him from the bloody 

earth, — 
Even so, Beloved, I at last record, 
Here ends my strife. If thou invite me 

forth, 
I rise above abasement at the word. 
Make thy love larger to enlarge my 

worth. 



TRANSLA TIONS. 



XVII. 

My poet, thou canst touch on all the 

notes 
God set between His After and Before, 
And strike up and strike off the general 

roar 
Of the rushing worlds, a melody that 

floats 
In a serene air purely. Antidotes 
Of medicated music, answermg for 
Mankind's forlornest uses, thou canst 

pour 
From thence into their ears. God's will 

devotes 
Thine to such ends and mine to wait on 

thine ! 
How, Dearest, wilt thou have me for 

most use ? 
A hope, to sing by gladly? . . or a fine 
Sad memory, with thy songs to inter- 
fuse ? 
A shade, in which to sin:j ... of palm 

or pine ? 
A grave, on which to rest from singing ? 

. . Choose. 



I NEVER gave a lock of hair away 

To a man, Dearest, except this to thee. 

Which now upon my fingers thought- 

ftally 
I ring out to the full brown length and 

say 
'Take it.' My day of youth went yes- 
terday ; 
My hair no longer bounds to my foot's 

glee, 
Nor plant I it from rose or myrtle-tree. 
As girls do, any more. It only may 
Now shade on two pale cheeks, the 

mark of tears. 
Taught drooping from the head that 

hangs aside 
Through sorrow's trick. I thought the 

funeral .shears 
Would take this first; but Love is 

justified : 
Take it thou, . . finding pure, from all 

those years. 
The kiss my mother left here when she 

died. 



The soul's Rialto hath its merchandise ; 
1 barter curl for curl upon that mart ; 
And from my poet's forehead to my 

heart. 
Receive this lock which outweighs ar- 
gosies, — 
As purply black, as erst to Pindar's eyes 
The dim purpureal tresses gloomed 

athwart 
The nine white Muse-brows. For this 

counterpart, 
The bay-crown's shade. Beloved, I 

surmise. 
Still lingers on thy curl, it is so black ! 
Thus, with a fillet of smooth-kissing 

breath, 
I tie the shadow safe from gliding back. 
And lay the gift where nothing hin- 

dereth. 
Here on my heart as on thy brow, to 

lack 
No natural heat till mine grows cold iu 

death. 



Beloved, my Beloved, when I think 
That thou wast in the world a year ago. 
What time I sate alone here in the snow 
And saw no footprint, heard the silence 

sink 
No moment at thy voice, . . but link by 

link 
Went counting all my chains as if that so 
They never could fall off at any blow 
Struck by thy possible hand .... why, 

thus I drink 
Of life's great cup of wonder. Won- 
derful, 
Never to feel thee thrill the day or night 
With personal act or speech, — nor ever 

cull 
Some prescience of thee with the blos- 
soms white 
Thou sawest growing ! Atheists are as 

dull. 
Who cannot guess God's presence out of 
sight. 



Say over again and yet once over again 
That thou dost love me. Though the 
word repeated 



TRANSLA TTONS. 



Should seem 'a cuckoo-song,' as thou 

dost treat it. 
Remember never to the hill or plain, 
Valley and wood, without her cuckoo- 
strain; 
Comes the fresh Spring in all her green 

completed ! 
Beloved, I, amid the darkness greeted 
By a doubtful spirit- voice, in that doubt's 

pain 
Cry . . speak once more . . thou lovest ! 

Who can fear 
Too many stars, though each in heaven 

shall roll- 
Too many flowers, though each shall 

crown the year? 
Say thou dost love me, love me, love me 

—toll 
The silver iterance ! — only minding, 

Dear, 
To love me also in silence, with thy soul. 

XXII. 

When our two souls stand up erect and 

strong, 
Face to face, drawing nigh and nigher. 
Until the lengthening wings break into 

fire 
At either curved point, — What bitter 

wrong 
Can the earth do to us, that we should 

not long 
Be here contented ? Think. In mount- 
ing higher. 
The angels would press on us, and aspire 
To drop some golden orb of perfect song 
Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay 
Kather on earth. Beloved, — where the 

unfit 
Contrarious moods of men recoil away 
And isolate pure spirits, and permit 
A place to stand and love in for a day, 
With darkness and the death-hour 

rounding it. 

XXIII. 

Is it indeed so? If I lay here dead, 
Would'st thou miss any life in losing 

mine. 
And would the sun for thee more coldly 

shine. 
Because of grave-damps falling round 

my head ? 



I marvelled, my Beloved, when I read 
Thy thought so in the letter. I am 

thine — 
But . . so much to thee ? Can I pour 

thy wine 
While my hands tremble? Then my 

soul, instead 
Of dreams of death, resumes life's lower 

range I 
Then, love me. Love ! look on me . . 

breathe on me ! 
As brighter ladies do not count it strange. 
For love, to give up acres and degree, 
I yield the grave for thy sake, and 

exchange 
My near sweet view of Heaven, for 

earth with thee ! 

XXIV. 

Let the world's sharpness like a clasping 

knife 
Shut in upon itself and do no harm 
In this close hand of Love, now soft and 

warm ; 
And let us hear no sound of human strife 
After the click of the shutting. Life to 

life— 
I lean upon thee. Dear, without alarm. 
And feel as safe as guarded by a charm. 
Against the stab of worldlings who if rife 
Are weak to injure. Very whitely still 
The lilies of our lives may reassure 
Their blossoms from their roots ! acces- 
sible 
Alone to heavenly dews that drop not 

fewer ; 
Growing straight, out of man's reach, on 

the hill. 
God only, who made us rich, can make 

us poor, 

XXV. 

A HE.WY heart. Beloved, have I borne 
From year to year until I saw thy face. 
And sorrow after sorrow took the place 
Of all those natural joys as lightly worn 
As the stringed pearls . . each lifted in 

its turn 
By a beating heart at dance-time. Hopes 

apace 
Were changed to long despairs, . . till 

God's own grace 
Could scarcely lift above the world 

forlorn 



TRANSLA riONS. 



231 



My heavy heart. Then thou didst bid 

me bring 
And let it drop adown thy calmly great 
Deep being ! Fast it sinketh, as a thing 
Which its own nature doth precipitate, 
While thine doth close above it medi- 
ating 
Betwixt the stars and the unaccom- 
plished fate. 

XXVI. 

I LIVED with visions for my company 

Instead of men and women, years ago. 

And found them gentle mates, nor 
thought to know 

A sweeter music than they played to 
me. 

But soon their trailing purple was not 
free 

Of this world's dust, — their lutes did 
silent grow. 

And I myself grew faint and blind be- 
low 

Their vanishing eyes. Then thou didst 
come . . to be. 

Beloved, what they seemed. Their 
shining fronts. 

Their songs, their splendours . . (better, 
yet the same. 

As water-river hallowed into fonts . . ) 

Met in thee, and from out thee over- 
came 

My soul with satisfaction of all wants — 

Because God's gifts put man's best 
dreams to shame. 

xxvii. 
My own Beloved, who hast lifted me 
From this drear flat of earth where I was 

thrown. 
And in betwixt the languid ringlets, 

blown 
A life-breath, till the forehead hopefully 
Shines out again, as all the angels see. 
Before thy saving kiss ! My own, my 

own. 
Who earnest to me when the world was 

gone. 
And I who only looked for God, found 

thee ! 
I find thee : I am safe, and strong, and 

glad. 
As one who stands in dewless asphodel 



Looks backward on the tedious time he 
had 

In the upper life . . so I, with bosom- 
swell. 

Make witness here between the good 
and bad. 

That Love, as strong as Death, retrieves 
as well. 

XXVIII. 

My letters all dead paper, . . mute and 

white ! — 
And yet they seem alive and quiver- 
ing 
Against my tremulous hands which 

loose the string 
And let them drop down on my knee to- 

night. 
This said, . . He wished to have me in 

his sight 
Once, as a friend : this fixed a day in 

spring 
To come and touch my hand ... a sim- 
ple thing. 
Yet I wept for it ! — this, . . . the paper's 

light . . 
Said, Dear, I love thee : and I sank and 

quailed 
As if God's future thundered on my 

past : 
This said la/u thine — and so its ink has 

paled 
With lying at my heart that beat too 

fast : 
And this . . . O Love, thy words have 

ill availed. 
If, what this said, I dared repeat at last 1 

xxix. 

I THINK of thee ! — my thoughts do twine 
and bud 

About thee, as wild vines about a tree. 

Put out broad leaves, and soon there's 
nought to see 

Except the straggling green which hides 
the wood. 

Yet, O my palm-tree, be it understood 

I will not have my thoughts instead of 
thee 

Who art dearer, better ! Rather in- 
stantly 

Renew thy presence ! As a strong tree 
should 



TRANSLA TIONS. 



Rustle thy boughs and set thy trunk all 

bare, 
And let these bands of greenery which 

insphere thee. 
Drop heavily down, . . burst, shattered, 

everywhere ! 
Because, in this deep joy tosee and hear 

thee 
And breathe within thy shadow a new 

air, 
I do not think of thee — I am too near 

thee. 



I SEE thy image through my tears to- 
night. 
And yet to-day I saw thee smiling. 

How 
Refer the cause ? — Beloved, is it thou 
Or I ? Who makes me sad ? The 

acolyte 
Amid the chanted joy and thankful rite. 
May so fall flat with pale insensate brow. 
On the altar-stair. I hear thy voice 

and vow 
Perplexed, uncertain, since thou'rt out 

of sight. 
As he, in liis swooning ears, the choir's 

amen ! 
Beloved, dost thou love ? or did I see all 
The glory as I dreamed, and fainted 

when 
Too vehement light dilated my ideal 
For my soul's eyes? Will that light 

eome again. 
As now these tears come . . . falling hot 

and real ? 

XXXI. 

Thou comest 1 all is said without a 

word. 
I sit beneath thy looks, as children do 
In the noon-sun, with souls that tremble 

through 
Their happy eyelids from an unaverred 
Yet prodigal inward joy. Behold, I 

erred 
In that last doubt ! and yet I cannot rue 
The sin most, but the occasion . . . that 

we two 
Should for a moment stand unminlstered 
By a mutual presence. Ah, keep near 

siud close. 



Thou dovelike help ! and, when ray 
fears would rise. 

With thy broad heart serenely interpose ! 

Brood down with thy divine sufficien- 
cies 

These thoughts which tremble when 
bereft of those. 

Like callow birds left desert to the skios. 

XXXII. 

The first time that the sun rose on thine 

oath 
To love me, I looked forward to the 

moon 
To slacken all those bonds which seemed 

too soon 
And quickly tied to make a lasting 

troth. 
Quick-loving hearts, I thought, may 

quickly loathe ; 
And, looking on myself, I seemed not 

one 
For such man's love ! — more like an out 

of tune 
Worn viol, a good singer would be 

wroth 
To spoil his song with, and which, 

snatched in haste. 
Is laid down at the first ill-sounding 

note. 
I did not wrong myself so, but I placed 
A wrong on thee. For perfect strains 

may float 
'Neath master-hands, from instruments 

defaced, — 
And great souls, at one stroke, may do 

and doat. 

XXXIII. 

Yes, call me by my pet-name I let me 

hear 
The name I used to run at, when a child. 
From innocent play, and leave the cow- 
slips piled, 
To glance up in some face that proved 

me dear 
With the look of its eyes. I miss the 

clear 
Fond voices, which, being drawn and 

reconciled 
Into the music of Heaven's undefiled. 
Call me no longer. Silence on the bier. 
While / call God . . call God !— So let 
thy mouth 



TRANSLATIONS. 



~«33 



Be heir to those who are now exani- 
mate : 

Gather the north flowers to complete 
the south, 

And catch the early love up in the late ! 

Yes, call me by that name, — and I, in 
truth. 

With the same heart, will answer and 
not wait. 

XXXIV. 

With the same heart, I said, I'll answer 

thee 
As those, when thou shall call me by 

my name — 
Lo, the vain promise ! Is the same, the 

same, 
Perplexed and ruffled by life's strategy ? 
When called before, I told how hastily 
I dropped my flowers, or brake off from 

a game. 
To run and answer with the smile that 

came 
At play last moment, and went on with 

me 
Through my obedience. When I answer 

now, 
I drop a grave thought ; — break from 

solitude : — 
Yet still my heart goes to thee . . . pon- 
der how . . 
Not as to a single good but all my good ! 
Lay thy hand on it, best one, and allow 
That no child's foot could run fast as 

this blood. 

XXXV. 

If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange 
And be all to me ? Shall I never miss 
Home-talk and blessing, and the com- 
mon kiss 
That comes to each in turn, nor count it 

strange. 
When I look up to drop on a new range 
Of walls and floors . . another home 

than this ? 
Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me 

which is 
Filled by dead eyes too tender to know 

change ? 
That's hardest ! If to conquer love, has 

tried. 
To conquer grief tries more ... as all 

things prove, 



For grief indeed i^ love and grief be- 
side. 

Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to 
love — 

Yet love me — wilt thou? Open thine 
heart wide. 

And fold within, the wet wings of thy 
dove. 

XXXVI. 

When we first met and lovfed, I did not 

build 
Upon the event with marble. Could it 

mean 
To last, a love set pendulous between 
Sorrow and sorrow 1 Nay, I rather 

thrilled. 
Distrusting every light that seemed to 

gild 
The onward path, and feared to over- 
lean 
A finger even. And though I have 

grown serene 
And strong since then, I think that God 

has willed 
A still renewable fear . . O love, O 

troth . . 
Lest these enclasped hands should never 

hold. 
This mutual kiss drop down between us 

both 
As an unowned thing, once the lips being 

cold. 
And Love be false ! if he, to keep one 

oath, 
Must lose one joy by his life's star fore- 
told. 

XXXVII. 

Pardon, oh, pardon, that my soul should 
make 

Of all that strong divineness which I 
know 

For thine arid thee, an image only so 

Formed of the sand, and fit to shift and 
break. 

It is that distant years which did not 
take 

Thy sovranty, recoiling with a blow. 

Have forced my swimming brain to un- 
dergo 

Their doubt and dread, and blindly to 
forsake 

Thy purity of likeness, and distort 



234 



TRANSLA TIONS. 



Thy worthiest love to a worthless coun- 
terfeit. . 
As if a shipwrecked Pagan, safe in port, 
His guardian sea-god to conimemorate. 
Should set a sculptured porpoise, gills 

a-snort. 
And vibrant tall, withm the temple- 
gate. 

XXXVIII. 

First time he kissed me. he but only 

Icisscd 
The fingers of this hand wherewith I 

write, , 

And ever since it grew more clean and 

white, ... • , • v 

Slow to world-greetings . . quick with 

its ' Oh, list,' . 

When the angels speak. A ring ol 

amethyst . 

I could not wear here plainer to my 

sight, , 

Than that first kiss. The second passed 

in height . , ^ , i i 

The first, and sought the forehead, and 

half missed, , . ^^ , . 

Half falling on the hair. O beyond 

meed ! ^ , . , , , 

That was the chrism of love with love s 

own crown. 
With sanctifying sweetness, did pre- 

The*third upon my lips was folded down 
In perfect, purple state ! since when. 

indeed, . , . ht t 

I have been proud and said. My i-ove, 

my own.' 

XXXIX. 

Because thou hast the power and own'st 

the grace .,,.,,• i 

To look through and behind this mask 

of me, , , , 

(Against which years have beat thus 

blanchingly , , , , , ,. 

With their rains !) and beheld my soul s 

true face, . r it > 

The dim and dreary witness of iile s 

Becaus^e^thou hast the faith and love to 

Through that same soul's distracting 
lethargy, 



The patient angel waiting for his place 

In the new Heavens : because nor sin 
nor woe. 

Nor God's infliction, nor death's neigh- 
borhood. 

Nor all which others viewing, turn to 
go, . . 

Nor all which makes me tired of all, 
self-viewed, . . 

Nothing repels thee, . . Dearest, teach 
me so 

To pour out gratitude, as thou dost, 
good ! 



Oh. yes ! they love through all this 

world of ours ! 
I will not gainsay love, called love for- 
sooth. 
I have heard love talked w. my early 

youth. 
And since, not so long back but that the 

flowers 
Then gathered, smell still. Alussul- 

mans and Giaours 
Throw kerchiefs at a smile, and have no 

ruth 
For any weeping. Polyphemes white 

tooth 
Slips on the nut. if after frequent show- 
ers 
The shell is oversmooth ; and not so 

much 
Will turn the thing called love, aside to 

hate. 
Or else to oblivion. But thou art not 

such 
A lover, my Beloved ! thou canst wait 
Through sorrow and sickness, to bring 

souls to touch, 
And think it soon when others cry ' Too 

late.' 



I THANK all who have loved me in their 

hearts, 
With thanks and love from mine. Deep 

thanks to all 
Who paused a little near the prison- wall. 
To hear my music in its louder parts, 
Ere they went onward, each one to the 

mart's , 

Or temple's occupations, beyond all. 



TRANSLATIONS. 



S3S 



But thou, who in my voice's sink and 
fall, 

"When the sob took it, thy divinest Art's 

Own instrument didst drop down at thy 
foot. 

To hearken what I said between my 
tears, . . 

Instruct me how to thank thee ! — Oh, to 
shoot 

My soul's full meaning into future years. 

That they should lend it utterance, and 
salute 

Love that endures 1 with Life that dis- 
appears ! 



How do I love thee? Let me count 

the ways. 
I love thee to the depth and breadth 

and height 
My soul can reach, when feeling out of 

sight 
For the ends of Being and Ideal Grace. 
I love thee to the level of everyday's 
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. 
I love thee freely, as men strive for 

Right ; 
I love thee purelj', as they turn from 

. Praise ; 
I love thee with the passion put to use 
In my old griefs, and with my child- 
hood's faith ; 
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose 
With my lost saints,— I love thee with 

the breath. 
Smiles, tears, of all my life ! — and, if 

God choose, 
I shall but love thee better after death. 



Beloved, thou hast brought me many 

flowers 
Plucked in the garden, all the summer 

through 
And winter, and it seemed as if they 

grew 
In this close room, nor missed the sun 

and showers. 
So, in the like name of that love of ours. 
Take back these thoughts which here 

imfolded too. 



And which on warm and cold days I 

withdrew 
From my heart's ground. Indeed, those 

beds and bowers 
Be overgrown with bitter weeds and rue. 
And wait thy weeding : yet here's 

eglantine. 
Here's ivy !— take them, as I used to do 
Thy flowers, and keep them where they 

shall not pine ; 
Instruct thine eyes to keep their colours 

true. 
And tell thy soul, their roots are left in 

mine. 



My future will not copy fair my past. 
I wrote that once ; and thinking at my 

side 
My ministering life-angel justified 
The word by his appealing look upcast 
To the white throne of God, I turned at 

last. 
And there, instead, saw ikee ; not un- 

allied 
To angels in thy soul ! Ihen I, long 

tried 
By natural ills, received the comfort fast. 
While budding at thy sight, my pilgrim's 

staff 
Gave out green leaves with morning 

dews impearled. 
— I seek no copy now of life's first half! 
Leave here the pages with long musing 

curled. 
And write me new my future's epigraph. 
New angel mine, unhoped for in the 

world 1 



PARAPHRASES ON HEINE. 

EOME, 1860. 



Out of my own great woe 

I make my little songs. 

Which rustle their feathers in throngs. 

And beat on her heart even so. 



236 



TRANSLA TIONS. 



They found their way, for their part. 
Ye come again and complain. 
Complain, and are not fain 
To say what they saw in her heart. 



Art thou indeed so adverse ? 
Art thou so changed indeed ? 
Against the woman who wrongs me 
I cry to the world in my need. 



O recreant lips unthankful. 

How could ye speak evil, say. 

Of the man who so well has kissed you 

On many a fortunate day ? 



III. 



My child, we were two children. 
Small, merry hy childhood's law ; 
We used to crawl to the hen-house. 
And hide ourselves in the straw. 



We crowed like cocks, and whenever 
The passers near us drew — 
Cock-a-doodle ! they thought 
'Twas a real cock that crew. 



The boxes about our courtyard 
We carpeted to our mind, 
And lived there both together — 
Kept house in a noble kind. 



The neighbor's old cat often 
Came to pay us a visit ; 



We made her a bow and curtsey. 
Each with a compliment in it, 



After her health we asked, 

Our care and regard to evince — 

( We have made the very same speeches 

To many an old cat since). 



We also sate and wisely 
Discoursed, as old folks do. 
Complaining how all went better 
In those good times we knew , — 



How love and truth and believing 
Had left the world to itself. 
And how so dear was the coffee. 
And how so rare was the pelf. 



The children's games are over. 

The rest is over with youth — 

The world, the good games, the good 

times. 
The belief, and the love, and the truth. 



IV. 



Thou lovest me not, thou lovest me not ! 

'Tis scarcely worth a sigh : 
Let me look in thy face, and no king in 
his place 

Is a gladder man than I. 



Thou hatest me well, thou hatest me 
well— 

Thy little red mouth has told : 
Let it reach me a kiss, and, however it i^ 

My child, I am well consoled. 



TRANSLATIONS. 



V. 



I. 

My own sweet Love, if thou in the 
grave, 
The darksome grave, wilt be. 
Then will I go down by the side, and 
crave 
Love-room for thee and me. 



I kiss and caress and press thee wild. 
Thou still, thou cold, thou white ! 

I wail, I tremble, and weeping mild. 
Turn to a corpse at the right. 



The Dead stand up, the midnight calls 
They dance in airy swarms — 

We two keep still where the grave- 
shade falls. 
And I lie on in thine arms. 



The Dead stand up, the Judgment-day 

Bids such to weal or woe — 
But nought shall trouble us where we 
stay 

Embraced and embracing below. 



VL 



The years they come and ^o. 
The races drop in the grave, 
Yet never the love doth so. 
Which in my heart I have. 



Could I see thee but once, one day 
And sink down so on my knee, 
And die in thy sight while 1 say, 
' Lady, I love but thee ! ' 



These Translations wers only Intended, 
many years ago, to accompany and explain 
certain Engravings after ancient Gems, in tha 
projected work of a friend, by wliose kindness 
they are now recovered ; but as two of tha 
original series (tlie " Adonis:" of Bion, and 
" Song to tlie Rose," from Achilles Tatiiis) had 
already been included in these poems, it is pre- 
sumed that the remainder may not improperly 
appear. A single recent version is added. 



PARAPHRASE ON THEOCRI- 
TUS. 

THE CYCLOPS. 

(Idyl XL) 
And so an easier life our Cyclops drew. 
The ancient Polyphemus, who in 
youth 
Loved Galatea, while the manhood grew 
Adown his cheeks and darkened round 
his mouth. 
No jot he cared for apples, olives, roses ; 
Love made him mad : the whole 
world was neglected. 
The very sheep went backward to their 
closes 
From out the fair green pastures, self- 
directed. 
And singing Galatea, thus, he wore 
The sunrise down along the weedy 
shore. 
And pined alone, and felt the cruel 
wound 
Beneath his heart, which Cypris's 
arrow bore, 
With a deep pang ; but, so, the cure was 
found ; 
And sitting on a lofty rock he cast 
His eyes upon the sea, and sang at 
last ;— 
' O whitest Galatea, can it be 

That thou shouldst spurn me off vifho 
love thee so ? 
More white than curds, my girl, thou 

art to see. 
More meek than lambs, more full of 
leaping glee 
Than kids, and brighter than tho 
early glow 



338 



TRANSLATIONS. 



On grapes that swell to ripen, — sour like 

thee! 
Thou comest to me with the fragrant 
sleep. 
And with the fragrant sleep thou goest 
from me ; 
Thou fliest . . fliest, as a frightened sheep 
Flies the gray wolf! — yet Love did 
overcome me. 
So long ; — I loved thee, maiden, first 
of all 
When down the hills (my mother fast 
beside thee) 
I saw thee stray to pluck the summer- 
fall 
Of hyacinth bells, and went myself to 
guide thee : 
And since my eyes have seen thee, they 
can leave thee 
No more, from that day's light ! But 
thou . . by Zeus, 
Thou wilt not care for that to let it 
grieve thee ! 
I know thee, fair one, why thou 
springest loose 
From my arm round thee. "Why? I 
tell thee. Dear ! 
One shaggy eyebrow draws its smudg- 
ing road 
Straight through my ample front, from 
ear to ear, — 
One eye rolls underneath ; and yawn- 
ing, broad 
Flat nostrils feel the bulging lips too 

near. 
Yet . . ho, ho ! — /, — whatever I ap- 
pear, — 
Do feed a thousand oxen ! When I 
have done, 
1 milk the cows, and drink the milk 
that's best ! 
I lack no cheese, while summer keeps 
the sun ; 
And after, in the cold, it's ready prest ! 
And then, I know to sing, as there is 
none 
Of all the Cyclops can, . . a song of 

thee. 
Sweet apple of my soul, on love's fair 

tree, 
And of myself who love thee . . till 

the West 
Forgets the light, and all but I have rest. 
I feed for thee, besides, eleven fair does, 



And all in fawn ; and four tame 
whelps of bears. 
Come to me, Sweet ! thou shalt have 
all of those 
In change for love ! 1 will not halve 
the shares. 
Leave the blue sea, with pure white 
arms extended 
To the dry ^ore ; and in my cave's 
rec e.ss. 
Thou shalt be gladder for the noonlight 
ended, — 
For here be laurels, spiral cypresses, 
Dark ivy, and a vine whose leaves 

enfold 
Most luscious grapes ; and here is water 
cold. 
The wooded iEtna pours down 
through the trees 
From the white snows, — which gods 
were scarce too bold 
To drink in turn with nectar. Who 

with these 
Would choose the salt wave of the 
lukewarm seas ? 
Nay, look on me ? If I am hairy and 
rough, 
I have an oak's heart in me ; there's a 
fire 
In these gray ashes which burns hot 
enough ; 
And when I burn for thee, I grudge 
the pyre 
No fuel . . not my soul, nor this one 

eye,— 
Most precious thing I have, because 

thereby 
I see thee. Fairest ! Out, alas I I wish 
My mother had borne me finned like a 

fish. 
That I might plunge down in the ocean 
near thee. 
And kiss thy glittering hand between 
the weeds, 
If still thy face were turned ; and I 
would bear thee 
Each lily white, and poppy fair that 
bleeds 
Its red heart down its leaves ! — one gift, 
for hours 
Of summer, . . one, for winter ; since, 
to cheer thee, 
I could not bring at once all kinds of 
flowers. 



TRANSLATIONS. 



239 



Even now, girl, now, I fain would learn 
to swim. 
If stranger in a ship sailed nigh, I 

wis, — 
That I may know how sweet a thing 
it is 
To live down with you in the Deep and 

Dim ! 
Come up, O Galatea, from the ocean. 

And having come, forget again to go ! 
As I, who sing out here my heart's 
emotion, 
Could sit forever. Come up from 
below ! 
Come, keep my flocks beside me, milk 
my kine, — 
Come, press my cheese, distrain my 
whey and curd ! 
Ah, mother ! she alone . . that mother 
of mine . . 
Did wrong me sore I I blame her I — 
Not a word 
Of kindly intercession did she address 
Thine ear with for my sake ; and ne'er- 
theless 
She saw me wasting, wasting, day by 

day! 
Both head and feet were aching, I 
will say. 
All sick for grief, as I myself was sick ! 
O Cyclops, Cyclops, whither hast thou 

sent 
Thy soul on fluttering wings ? If thou 
wert bent 
On turning bowls, or pulling green and 

thick 
The sprouts to give thy lambkins, — thou 
wouldst make thee 
A wiser Cyclops than for what we 
take thee. 
Milk dry the present ! "Why pursue too 

quick 
That future which is fugitive aright ? 
Thy Galatea thou shalt haply find, — 
Or else a maiden fairer and more 
kind ; 
For many girls do call me through the 
night. 
And, as they call, do laugh out silver- 

/, too, am something in the world, I 
see 1 ' 



While thus the Cyclops love and 
lambs did fold. 
Ease came with song, he could not buy 
with gold. 



PARAPHRASES ON APULEIUS. 

PSYCHE GAZING ON CUPID. 

[Meta77iorJ>h., Lib. IV.) 

Then Psyche, weak in body and soul, 
put on 
The cruelty of Fate, in place of 
strength : 
She raised the lamp to see what should 
be done. 
And seized the steel, and was a man 
at length 
In courage, though a woman ! Yes, but 
when 
The light fell on the bed whereby .she 
stood 
To view the 'beast' that lay there, — 
certes, then. 
She saw the gentlest, sweetest beast 
in wood — 
Even Cupid's self, the beauteous god ! 
more beauteous 
For that sweet sleep across his eyelids 
dim ! 
The light, the lady carried as she 
viewed. 
Did blush for pleasure as it lighted 
him. 
The dagger trembled from its aim un- 
duteous ; 
And she . . oh, she — amazed and soul 
distraught. 
And fainting in her whiteness like a 
veil. 
Slid down upon her knees, and, shud- 
dering thought 
To hide — though in her heart — the dag- 
ger pale ! 
She would have done it, but her hands 
did fail 
To hold the guilty steel, they shiv- 
ered so, — 
And feeble, exhausted, unawares she 
took 



240 



TRANSLA TIONS. 



To gazing on the god, — till, look by 
look 
Her eyes with larger life did fill and 
glow. 
She saw his golden head alight with 
curls, — 
She might have guessed their bright- 
ness in the darlc 
By that ambrosial smell of heavenly 
mark ! 
She saw the milky brow, more pure 
than pearls. 
The purple of the cheeks, divinely 
sundered 
By the globed ringlets, as they glided 

free, 
Some back, some forwards, — all so ra- 
diantly. 
That, as she watched them there, she 

never wondered 
To see the lamplight, where it touched 
them, tremble ; 
On the god's shoulders, too, she marked 
his wings 
Shine faintly at the edges and resem- 
ble 
A flower that's near to blow. The poet 
sings 
And lover sighs, that Love is fugi- 
tive ; 
And certes, though these pinions lay re- 
posing. 
The feathers on them seemed to stir 
and live 
As if by instinct closing and imclosing. 
Meantime the god's fair body slum- 
bered deep. 
All worthy of Venus, in his shining 

sleep ; 
While at the bed's foot lay the quiv- 
er, bow. 
And darts, — his arms of godhead. 
Psyche gazed 
With eyes that drank the wonders in, 
— said — ' Lo, 
Be these my husband's arms ? ' — and 
straightway raised 
An arrow from the quiver-case, and 
tried 
Its point against her finger, — trembling 
till 
She pushed it in too deeply (foolish 
bride !) 



And made her blood some dewdrops 

small distil, 
And learnt to love Love, of her own 

goodwill. 

r.SVCHE WAFTED BY ZEPHVRUS. 

[Metamorph., Lib. IV.) 

While Psyche wept upon the rock for- 
saken. 
Alone, despairing, dreading, — ^grad- 
ually 
By Zephyrus she was en wrapt and ta- 
ken 
Still trembling, — like the lilies planted 
high.— 
Through all her fair white limbs. Her 
vesture spread. 
Her very bosom eddying with sur- 
prise, — 
He drew her slowly from the mountain- 
head. 
And bore her down the valleys with 
wet eyes. 
And laid her in the lap of a green dell 
As soft with grass and flowers as any 
nest. 
With trees beside her, and a limpid 
well : 
Yet Love was not far off from all that 
Rest. 

VVSCHE AND PAN. 

[Metamorph., Lib. V.) 

The gentle River, in her Cupid's honor. 
Because he used to warm the very 
wave. 
Did ripple aside, instead of closing on 
her. 
And cast up Psyche, with a refluence 
brave. 
Upon the flowery bank, — all sad and 

sinning. 
Then Pan, the rural god, by chance wa^ 
leaning 
Along the brow of the waters as they 

wound. 
Kissing the reed-nymph till she sank 
to the ground, 



TRANSLATIONS. 



And teaching, without knowledge of the 
meaning, 
To run her voice in music after his 
Down many a shifting note ; (the goats 
around. 
In wandering pasture and most leap- 
ing bliss. 
Drawn on to crop the river's flowery 

hair.) 
And as the hoary god beheld her there, 
The poor, worn, fainting Psyche ! — 

knowing all 
The grief she suffered, he did gently 
call 
Her name, and sofdy comfort her des- 
pair : — 



• O wise, fair lady, I am rough and 
rude. 
And yet experienced through my weary 
age! 
And if I read aright, as soothsayer 
should. 
Thy faltering steps of heavy pilgrim- 
age. 
Thy paleness, deep as the snow we 
cannot see 
The roses through, — thy sighs of quick 

returning. 
Thine eyes that seem, themselves, two 
souls in mourning, — 
Thou lovest, girl, too well, and bitter- 
ly ! 
But hear me : rush no more to a head- 
long fall : 
Seek no more deaths ! leave wail, lay 
sorrow down. 
And pray the sovran god ; and use 
withal 
Such prayer as best may suit a tender 
youth. 
Well-pleased to bend to flatteries from 
mouth, 
And feel them stir the myrtle of his 
erown.' 



— So spake the shepherd -god ; and 
answer none 
Gave Psyche in return : but silently 
She did him homage with a bended 
knee. 
And took the onward path. — 



PSYCHE PROPITIATING CERES. 

{Metamorph., Lib. VI.) 
Then mother Ceres from afar beheld 
her. 
While Psyche touched, with reverent 
fingers meek. 
The temple's scythes ; and with a cry 
compelled her : 
' O wretched Psyche, Venus roams to 
seek 
Thy wandering footsteps round the 

weary earth. 
Anxious and maddened, and adjures 
thee forth 
To accept the imputed pang, and let 
her wreak 
Full vengeance with full force of deity ! 
Yet thoii, forsooth, art in my temple 
here. 
Touching my scythes, assuming my 
degree. 
And daring to have thoughts that arc 
not fear !' 
— But Psyche clung to her feet, and as 
they moved 
Rained tears along their track, tear 
dropped on tear. 
And drew the dust on in her trailing 
locks. 
And still, with passionate prayer, the 
charge disproved : — 
' Now, by thy right hand's gathering 

from the shocks 
Of golden corn, — and by thy gladsome 

rites 
Of harvest, — and thy consecrated sights 
Shut safe and mute in chests, — and by 

the course 
Of thy slave-dragons, — and the driving 

force 
Of ploughs along Sicilian glebes pro- 
found, — 
By thy swift chariot, — by thy steadfast 

ground, — 
By all those nuptial torches that departed 
With thy lost daughter, — and by those 
that shone 
Back with her, when she came again 
glad-hearted, — 
And by all other mysteries which are 
done 
In silence at Eleusis, — I beseech thee^ 



»4* 



translations: 



O Ceres, take some pity, and abstain 
From giving to my soul extremer pain 
Who am the wretched Psyche ! Let 
me teach thee 
A httle mercy, and have thy leave to 
spond 
A i^^ days only in thy garnered corn. 
Until that wrathful goddess, at the 
end. 
Shall feel her hate grow mild, the longer 

bourne, — 
Or till, alas ! — this faintness at my breast 
Pass from me, and my spirit apprehend 
From life-long woe a breath-time hour 

of rest!' 
— But Ceres answered, 'I am moved 
indeed 
By prayers so moist with tears.and 
would defend 
The poor beseecher from more utter 
need : 
But where old oaths, anterior ties, 

commend, 
I cannot fail to a sister, lie to a friend. 
As Venus is to vie. Depart with speed !' 



PSYCHE AND THE EAGLE. 
[Metamnrph., Lib. VI.) 

But sovran Jove's rapacious bird, the 

regal 
High percher on the lightning, the great 

eagle 
Drove down with rushing wings ; and, 

— thinking how. 
By Cupid's help, he bore from Ida's brow 
A cup-boy for his master, — he inclined 
To yield, in just return, an influence 

kind ; 
The god being honored in his lady's woe. 
And thus the bird wheeled downward 

from the track, 
Gods follow gods in, to the level low 
Of that poor face of Psyche left in wrack. 
—' Now fie, thou simple girl !' the Bird 

began ; 
* For if thou think to steal and carry back 
A drop of holiest stream that ever ran. 
No simpler thought, methinks, were 

found in man. 
What ! knowest thou not these Stygian 

waters be 



Most holy, even to Jove? that as, on 

earth. 
Men swear by gods, and by the thun- 
der's worth. 
Even so the heavenly gods do utter forth 
Their oaths by Styx's flowing majesty ? 
And yet, one little urnful, I agree 
To grant thy need !' Whereat, all 

hastily. 
He takes it, fills it from the willing wave. 
And bears it in his beak, incarnadined 
By the last Titan-prey he screamed to 

have ; 
And, striking calmly out, against the 

wind. 
Vast wings on each side, — there, where 

Psyche stands. 
He drops the urn down in her lifted 

hands. 

PSYCHE AND CERBERUS. 
{miMxm-pli., Lib. VI.) 

A MIGHTY Dog with three colossal necks. 
And heads in grand proportion ; vast 
as fear. 

With jaws that bark the thunder out 
that breaks 
In most innocuous dread for ghosts 
anear. 

Who are safe in death from sorrow : he 
reclines 

Across the threshold of queen Proser- 
pine's 

Dark-sweeping halls, and, there, for 
Pluto's spouse. 

Doth guard the entrance of the empty 
house. 

When Psyche threw the cake to him, 
once amain 

He howled up wildly from his hunger- 
pain. 

And was still, after. — 

PSYCHE AND PROSERPINE. 

{mtamorpli., Lib. VI.) 

Then Psyche entered in to Proserpine 
In the dark house, and straightway did 

decline 
With meek denial the luxurious seat. 
The liberal board for welcome stran- 
gers spread, 



TKANSLA TTONS. 



243 



But sate down lowly at the dark queen's 
feet, 
And told her talc, and brake her oaten 
bread. 
And when she had given the pyx \\\ 
humble duty. 
And told how Venus did entreat the 
queen 
To fill it up with only one day's beauty 
She used in Hades, star-bright and 
serene. 
To beautify the Cyprian, who had been 
All spoilt with grief in nursing her 
sick boy, — 
Then Proserpine, in malice and in joy. 
Smiled in the shade, and took the pyx, 

and put 
A secret in it ; and so, filled and shut. 
Gave it again to Pyschc. Could she 

tell 
It held no beauty, but a dream of hell ? 

PSYCHE AND VENU . 

{MetamorpJi., Lib. VI.) 

And Psyche brought to Venus what was 

sent 
By Pluto's spouse ; the paler, that she 

went 
So low to seek it, down the dark descent. 

MERCURY CARRIES PSYCHE TO OLYMPUS. 

[Meiamorph., Lib. VI.) 

Then Jove commanded the god Mer- 
cury 

To float up Psyche from the earth. And 
she 

Sprang at the first word, as the fountain 
springs, 

And shot up bright and rustling through 
his wings. 



MARRIAGE OF PSYCHE AND CUPID. 

{Metamorph., Lib. VI.) 

And Jove's right-hand approached the 

ambrosial bowl 
To Pysche's lips, that scarce dared 

yet to smile, — 
♦Drink, O my daughter, and acquaint 

thy soul 



With deathless uses, and be glad the 
while ! 
No more shall Cupid leave thy lovely 
side ; 
Thy marriage-joy begins for never- 
ending.' 
While yet he spake, — the nuptial feast 
supplied, — 
The bridegroom on the festive couch 
was bending 
O'er Psyche in his bosom — Jove, the 
same 
On Juno, and the other deities. 
Alike ranged round. The rural cup-boy 
came 
And poured Jove's nectar out with 
shining eyes. 
While Bacchus, for the others, did as 
much. 
And Vulcan spread the meal ; and all 

the Hours, 
Made all things purple with a sprinkle 
of flowers. 
Or roses chiefly, not to say the touch 
Of their sweet fingers ; and the 
Graces glided 
Their balm around, and the Muses, 
through the air 
Struck out clear voices, which were 
still divided 
By that divinest song Apollo there 
Intoned to his lute ; while Aphrodite 
fair 
Did float her beauty along the tune, and 
play 
The notes right with her feet. And 
thus, the day 
Through every perfect mood of joy was 
carried, 
The Muses sang their chorus ; Satyrus 
Did blow his pipes ; Pan touched his 
reed ; — and thus 
At last were Cupid and Psyche married. 



PARAPHRASES ON NONNUS. 

HOW DACCHUS FINDS ARIADNE SLEEPING. 

[Dionysiaca, Lib. XLVII.) 

When Bacchus first beheld the deso- 
late 
And sleeping Ariadne, wonder straight 



244 



TRANSLA TIONS. 



Was mixed with love in his great golden 

eyes; 
He turned to his Bacchantes in surprise. 
And said with guarded voice, — ' Hush ! 

strike no more 
Your brazen cymbals ; keep those voices 

still 
Of voice and pipe ; and since ye stand 

before 
Queen Cypns, let her slumber as she 

will ! 
And yet the cestus is not here in proof. 
A Grace, perhaps, whom sleep has sto- 
len aloof : 
In which case, as morning shines in 

view. 
Wake this Aglaia ! — yet in Naxos, who 
Would veil a Grace so ? Hush I And 

if that she 
Were Hebe, which of all the gods can 

be 
The pourer-out of wine ? or if we think 
She's like the shining moon by ocean's 

brink. 
The guide of herds, — why, could she 

sleep without 
Endym ion's breath on her cheek ? or if 

I doubt 
Of silver- footed Thetis, used to tread 
These shores, — even she (in reverence 

be it said) 
Has no such rosy beauty to dress deep 
With the blue waves. The Loxian 

goddess might 
Repose so from her hunting-toll aright 
Beside the sea, since toil gives birth to 

sleep. 
But who would find her with her tunic 

loose. 
Thus ? Stand off, Thracian 1 stand off! 

Do not leap. 
Not this way ! Leave that piping, since 

I choose, 
O dearest Pan, and let Athene rest ! 
And yet if she be Pallas . . truly 

guessed. . 
Her lance is — where ? her helm and segis 
—where ?' 
— As Bacchus closed, the miserable 

Fair 
Awoke at last, sprang upward from the 

s^nds. 
And gazing wild on that wild throng 

that stands 



Around, around her, and no Theseus 

there ! — 
Her voice went moaning over shore and 

sea. 
Beside the halcyon's cry ; she called 

her love ; 
She named her hero, and raged mad- 
deningly 
Against the brine of waters ; and 

above. 
Sought the ship's track and cursed the 

hours she slept ; 
And still the chiefest execration swept 
Against queen Paphia, mother of the 

ocean ; 
And cursed and prayed by times in her 

emotion 
The winds all round. 



Her grief did make her glorious ; her 

despair 
Adorned her with its weight. Poor 

wailing child ! 
She looked like Venus when the goddess 

smiled 
At liberty of godship, debonair ; 
Poor Ariadne 1 and her eyelids fair 
Hid looks beneath them lent her by 

Persuas ion 
And every Grace, with tears of Love's 

own passion. 
She wept long ; then she spake : — 

' Sweet sleep did come 
While sweetest Theseus went. O, glad 

and dumb, 
I wish he had left me still ! for in my 

sleep 
I saw his Athens, and did gladly keep 
My new bride-state within my Theseus' 

hall; 
And heard the pomp of Hymen, and 

the call 
Of ' Ariadne, Ariadne,' sung 
In choral joy ; and there, with joy I 

hung 
Spring-blossoms round lo>«e's altar ! — ay, 

and wore 
A wreath myself ; and felt him ever- 
more. 
Oh, evermore beside me, with his 

mighty 
Grave head bowed down in prayer t* 

Aphrodite I 



Why, what sweet, sweet dream 

went with it. 
And left me here unwedded where I 

sit! 
Persuasion help me ! The dark night 

did make me 
A brideship, the fair morning takes 

away ; 
My Love had left me when the Hour did 

wake me ; 
And while I dreamed of marriage, as 

I say, 
And blest it well, my blessed Theseus 

left me : 
And thus the sleep, 1 loved so, has be- 
reft me. 
Speak to me, rocks, and tell my grief 

to-day. 
Who stole my love of Athens ?'.... 



HOW BACCHUS COMFORTS ARIADNE. 

{Dionysiaca., Lib. X LVI L ) 

Then Bacchus' subtle speech her sorrow 

crossed : — 
• O maiden, dost thou mourn for having 

lost 
The false Athenian heart ? and dost thou 

still 
Take thought of Theseus, when thou 

may'st at will 
Have Bacchus for a husband ? Bacchus 

bright 
A god in place of mortal ! Yes, and 

though 
The mortal youth be charming in thy 

sight. 
That man of Athens cannot strive be- 
low. 
In beauty and valor, with my deity ! 
Thou'lt tell me of the labyrinthine 

dweller. 
The fierce man-bull, he slew : I pray 

thee, be. 
Fair Ariadne, the true deed's true 

teller, 
And mention thy clue's help 1 because, 

forsooth, • 
Thine armed Athenian hero had not 

found 
A power to fight on that prodigious 

ground, 
Unless a lady in her rosy youth 



TRANSLA TIONS. 
He 



345 



Had lingered near him : not to speak 

the truth 
Too definitely out till names be known — 
Like Paphia's — Love's — and Ariadne's 

own. 
Thou wilt not say that Athens can com- 
pare 
With i^ther, nor that Minos rules like 

Zeus, 
Nor yet that Gnossus has such golden 

air 
As high Olympus. Ha ! for noble use 
We came to Naxos ! Love has well in- 
tended 
To change thy bridegroom ! Happy 

thou, defended 
From entering in thy Theseus' earthly 

hall. 
That thou mayst hear the laughters rise 

and fall 
Instead, where Bacchas rules ! Or wilt 

thou choose 
A still-surpassing glory ? — take it all, — 
A heavenly house, Kronion's self for 

kin, — 
A place where Cassiopea sits within 
Inferior light, for all her daughter's 

sake. 
Since Perseus, even amid the stars, must 

take 
Andromeda in chains setherial ! 
But / will wreathe thee, sweet, an astral 

crown. 
And as my queen and spouse thou shalt 

be known — 
Mine, the crown-lover's!' Thus, at 

length, he proved 
His comfort on her ; and the maid was 

moved ; 
And casting Theseus' memory down the 

brine. 
She straight received the troth of her 

divine 
Fair Bacchus ; Love stood by to close 

the rite : 
The marriage-chorus struck up clear and 

light. 
Flowers sprouted fast about the chamber 

green. 
And with spring-garlands on their 

heads, I ween. 
The Orchomenian dancers came along. 
And danced their rounds in Naxos to 
the song. 



9^6 



TRANSLA TIONS. 



A Hamadryad sang a nuptial dit 
Right shrilly : and a Naiad sate beside 
A fountain, with her bare foot shelving it. 
And hymned of Ariadne, beauteous 

bride. 
Whom thus the god of grapes had dei- 
fied. 
Ortygia sang out, louder than her wont. 
An ode which Phoebus gave her to be 

tried. 
And leapt in chorus, with her steadfast 

front. 
While prophet Love, the stars have 

called a brother. 
Burnt in his crown, and twined in one 

another. 
His love-flower with the purple roses, 

given 
In type of that new crown assigned in 

heaven. 



PARAPHRASE ON HESIOD. 

BACCHUS AND ARIADNE. 

{Theog.,gr^7.) 

The golden-haired Bacchus did espouse 

That fairest Ariadne, Minos' daughter. 

And made her wifehood blossom in the 

house ; 
Where such protective gifts Kronion 

brought her. 
Nor Death nor Age could find her 

when they sought her. 



PARAPHRASE ON EURIPIDES. 

ANTISTROPHE. 

[Troades, 853.) 

Love, Love who once didst pass the 
Dardan portals. 
Because of Heavenly passion ! 
Who once didst lift up Troy in exulta- 
tion, 
To mingle in thy bond the high Immor- 
tals !— 
Love, turned from his own name 



To Zeus' shame. 
Can help no more a... 
And Eos' self, the fair, white-steedcd 

morning, — 
Her light which blesses other lands, re- 

turning, 
Has changed to a gloomy pall ; 
She looked across the land with eyes of 

amber, — 
She saw the city's fall, — 
She, who, in pure embraces. 
Had held there, in the hymeneal cham- 
ber. 
Her children's father, bright Tithonus 

old. 
Whom the four steeds with starry brows 

and paces 
Bore on, snatched upward, on the car of 

gold. 
And with him, all the land's full hope of 

joy! 
The love-charms of the gods are vain 

for Troy. 
Note. — Rendered after Mr. Buiges's leading, 
in Borne respects — not quite all. 



PARAPHRASES ON HOMER. 

HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE. 

[Iliad, Lib. VI.) 

She rushed to meet him : the nurse fol- 
lowing 

Bore on her bosom the unsaddened 
child, 

A simple babe, prince Hector's well- 
loved son. 

Like a star shining when the world is 
dark. 

Seaman drius. Hector called him, but the 
rest 

Named him A.'^tyanax, the city's prince. 

Because that Hector only, had saved 
Troy. 

He, when he saw his son, smiled silently ; 

While, dropping tears, Andromache 
pressed on. 

And clung to his hand, and spake, and 
named his name. 

' Hector, my best one, — thine own noble- 
ness 



TRANSLA TIONS. 



Must needs undo thee. Pity hast thou 

none 
For this young child, and this most sad 

myself, 
Who soon shall be thy widow — since 

that soon 
The Greeks will slay thee in the general 

rush — 
And then, for me, what refuge, reft of 

thee. 
But to go graveward ? Then, no com- 
fort more 
Shall touch me, as in the old sad times 

thou know'st — 
Grief only — grief ! I have no father 

now, 
No mother mild ! Achilles the divine. 
He slew my father, sacked his lofty 

Thebes, 
Cilicia's populous city, and slew its king, 
Eetion — father, did not spoil the corse, 
Because the Greek revered him in his 

soul. 
But burnt the body with its daedal arms, 
And poured the dust out gently. Round 

that tomb 
The Oreads, daughters of the goat- 

nuised Zeus, 
Tripped in a ring, and planted their 

green elms. 
There were seven brothers with me in 

the house. 
Who all went down to Hades in one 

day, — 
For he slew all, Achilles the divine. 
Famed for his swift feet, — slain among 

their herds 
Of cloven-footed bulls and flocking 

sheep ! 
My mother too, who queened it o'er the 

woods 
Of Hippoplacia, he, with other spoil, 
Seized, — and, for golden ransom, freed 

too late, — 
Since, as she went home, arrowy Arte- 
mis 
Met her and slew her at my father's 

door. 
But — oh, my Hector, — thou art still to 

me 
Father and mother ! — yes, and brother 

dear, 
O thou, who art my sweetest spouse 

beside I 



Come now, and take me into pity ! 

Stay 
r the town here with us ! Do not make 

thy child 
An orphan, nor a widow, thy poor wife ! 
Call up the people to the fig-tree, where 
The city is most accessible, the wall 
Most easy of assault ! — for thrice there- 
by 
The boldest Greeks have mounted to 

the breach, — 
Both Aja.\es, the famed Idomeneus 
Two sons of Atreus, and the noble one 
Of Tydeus. — whether taught by some 

wise seer. 
Or by their own souls prompted and 
inspired.' 

Great Hector answered : — ' Lady, for 

these things 
It is my part to care. And / fear most 
My Trojans, and their daughters, and 

their wives. 
Who through their long veils would 

glance scorn at me. 
If, coward-like, I shunned the open war. 
Nor doth my own soul prompt me to 

that end ! 
I learnt to be a brave man constantly. 
And to fight foremost where my Trojans 

fight. 
And vindicate my father's glory and 

mine — 
Because I know, by instinct and my 

soul, 
The day comes that our sacred Troy 

must fall. 
And Priam and his people. Knowing 

which, 
I have no such grief for all my Trojan's 

sake. 
For Hecuba's, for Priam's, our old king. 
Not for my brothers', who so many and 

brave 
Shall bite the dust before our enemies, — 
As, sweet, for thee ! — to think some 

mailed Greek 
Shall lead thee weeping and deprive thy 

life 
Of the free sun-sight — that, when gone 

away 
To Argos, thou shalt throw the distaff 

there 
Not for thy uses — or shalt carry instead 



348 



TRANSLATIONS. 



Upon thy loathing brow, as heavy a , He gave the child ; and she received 



doonii 
The water of Greek wells — Messeis' 

own, 
Or Hyperea's !— that some stander-by, 
Marking thy tears fall, shall say, 'This 

is she. 
The wife of that same Hector who 

fought best 
Of all the Trojans, when all fought for 

Troy — ' 
Ay ! — and, so speaking, shall renew thy 

pang 
That, reft of him so named, thoushouldst 

survive 
To a slave's life ! But earth shall hide 

my corse 
Ere that shriek sound, wherewith thou 

art dragged from Troy.' 

Thus Hector spake, and stretched his 

arms to his child. 
Against the nurse's breast, with childly 

cry. 
The boy clung back, and shunned his 

father's face. 
And feared the glittering brass and 

waving hair 
Of the high helmet, nodding horror 

down. 
The father smiled, the mother could not 

choose 
But smile too. Then he lifted from his 

brow 
The helm, and set it on the ground to 

shine : 
Then, kissed his dear child — raised him 

with both arms. 
And thus invoked Zeus and the general 

gods :— 

' Zeus, and all godships ! grant this boy 

of mine 
To be the Trojans' help, as I myself, — 
To live a brave life and rule well in 

Troy ! 
Till men shall say, 'The son exceeds 

the sire 
By a far glory.' Let him bring home 

spoil 
Heroic, and make glad his mother's 

heart ' 

With which prayer, to his wife's ex- 
tended arms 



him straight 
To her bosom's fragrance — smiling up 

her tears. 
Hector gazed on her till his soul was 

moved ; 
Then softly touched her with his hand 

and spake. 
'My best one— 'ware of passion and 

excess 
In any fear. There's no man in the 

world 
Can send me to the grave apart from 

fate,— 
And no man . . Sweet, I tell thee . . 

can fly fate — 
No good nor bad man. Doom is self- 
fulfilled. 
But now, go home, and ply thy woman's 

task 
Of wheel and distaff! bid thy maidens 

haste 
Their occupation. War's a care for 

men — 
For all men born in Troy, and chief for 

me.' 

Thus spake the noble Hector, and re- 
sumed 

His crested helmet, while his spouse 
went home ; 

But as she went, still looked back 
lovingly. 

Dropping the tears from her reverted 
face. 



THE DAUGHTERS OF PANDARUS. 

{Odyss., Lib. XX.) 

And so these daughters fair of Pandarus, 
The whirlwinds took. The gods had 

slain their kin : 
They were left orphans in their father's 

house. 
And Aphrodite came to comfort them 
With incense, luscious honey, and fra- 
grant wine ; 
And Here gave them beauty of face and 

soul 
Beyond all women ; purest Artemis 
Endowed them with her stature and 

white grace ; 
And Pallas taught their hands to flash 
along 



TRANSLA TIONS. 



Her famous looms. Then, bright with 
deity. 

Toward far Olympus, Aphrodite went 

To ask of Zeus (who has his thunder-joys 

And his full knowledge of man's min- 
gled fate) 

How best to crown those other gifts with 
love 

And worthy marriage : but, what time 
she went. 

The ravishing Harpies snatched the 
maids away. 

And gave them up, for all their loving 
eyes, 

To serve the Furies who hate constantly. 

ANOTHER VERSION. 

So the storms bore the daughters of 
Pandarus out into thrall — 

The gods slew their parents ; the or- 
phans were left in the hall. 

And there came, to feed their young 
lives. Aphrodite divine. 

With the incense, the sweet-tasting 
honey, the sweet-smelling wine ; 

Here brought them her wit above wom- 
an's, and beauty of face ; 

And pure Artemis gave them her stat- 
ure, that form might have grace : 

And Athene instructed their hands in 
her works of renown ; 

Then, afar to Olympus, divine Aphrodite 
moved on : 

To complete other gifts, by uniting each 
girl to a mate. 

She sought Zeus, who has joy in the 
thunder and knowledge of fate. 

Whether mortals have good chance or 
ill ! But the Harpies alate 

In the storm came, and swept off the 
maidens, and gave them to wait. 

With that love in their eyes, on the 
Furies who constantly hate. 



PARAPHRASE ON ANACREON. 

ODE TO THE SWALLOW. 

Thou indeed, little Swallow, 
A sweet yearly comer. 
Art building a hollow 
New nest every summer. 



And straight dost depart 
Where no gazing can follow. 
Past Memphis, down Nile ! 
Ay ! but love all the while 
Builds his nest in my heart. 
Through the cold wmter- weeks : 
And as one Love takes flight. 
Comes another, O Swallow, 
In an egg warm and white. 
And another is callow. 
And the large gaping beaks 
Chirp all day and all night : 
And the Loves who are older 
Help the young and the poor Loves, 
And the young Loves grown bolder 
Increase by the score Loves — 
Why, what can be done ? 
If a noise comes from one. 
Can I bear all this rout of a hundred 
and more Loves ? 



SONG OF THE ROSE. 

ATTRIBUTED TO SAPPHO. 

If Zeus chose us a King of the flowers 
in his mirth. 
He would call to the rose, and would 
royally crown it ; 
For the rose, ho, the rose ! is the grace 
of the earth. 
Is the light of the plants that are 
growing upon it ! 
For the rose, ho, the rose ! is the eye of 
the flowers. 
Is the blush of the meadows that feel 
themselves fair, — 
Is the lightning of beauty that strikes 
through the bowers 
On pale lovers that sit in the glow un- 
aware. 
Ho, the rose breathes of love ! ho, the 

rose lifts the cup 
To the red lips of Cypris invoked for 
a guest ! 
Ho, the rose having curled its sweet 
leaves for the world 
Takes delight in the motion its petals 
keep up. 
As they laugh to the Wind as it laughs 
from the west. 

From AchaUi Tatim. 



THE FOURFOLD ASPECT. 



THE FOURFOLD ASPECT. 

When ye stood up in the house 

With your little childish feet. 
And in touching Life's first shows. 

First the touch of Love did meet, — 
Love and Nearness seeming one. 

By the heart-light cast before. 
And, of all Beloveds, none 

Standing farther than the door — 
Not a name being dear to thought. 

With its owner beyond call. 
Nor a face, unless it brought 

Its own shadow to the wall. 
When the worst recorded change 

Was of apple dropt from bough. 
When love's sorrow seemed more 
strange 

Than love's treason can seem now ; 
Then, the Loving took you up 

Soft, upon their elder knees, — 
Telling why the statues droop 

Underneath the churchyard trees. 
And how ye must lie beneath them 

Through the winters long and deep, 
Till the last trump overbreathe them. 

And ye smile out of your sleep . . . 
Oh ye lifted up your head, and it seemed 
as if they said 
A tale of fairy ships 

With a swan-wing for a sail ! — 
Oh, ye kissed their loving lips 

For the merry, merry tale ! — 
So carelessly ye thought upon the Dead. 



Soon ye read in solemn stories 

Of the men of long ago — 
Of the pale bewildering glories 

Shining farther than we know. 
Of the heroes with the laurel. 

Of the poets with the bay. 
Of the two worlds' earnest quarrel 

For that beauteous Helena. 
How Achilles at the portal 

Of the tent, heard footsteps nigh 
And his strong heart, half-immortal. 

Met the keitai with a cry, — 
How Ulysses left the sunlight 

For the pale eidola race 
Blank and passive through the dun 
light. 

Staring blindly on his face ; 



How that true wife said to Postus, 
With calm smile and wounded 
heart, 
' Sweet, it hurts not ! ' — how Admetus 

Saw his blessed one depart. 
How King Arthur proved his mission. 

And Sir Rowlana wound his horn. 
And at Sangreal's moony vision 
Swords did brisde round like£orn. 
Oh! ye lifted up your head, and it 
seemed the while ye read, - 
That this death, then, must be found 
A Vallialla for the crowned — 
The heroic who prevail. 
None, be sure can enter in 
Far below a paladin 
Of a noble, noble tale ! — 
So awfully ye thought upon the Dead. 



Ay ! but soon ye woke up shrieking, — 

As a child that wakes at night 
From a dream of sisters speaking 

In a garden's summer-light, — 
That wakes, starting up and bounding, 

In a lonely, lonely bed. 
With a wall of darkness round him. 

Stifling black about his head ! — 
And the full sense of your mortal 

Rushed upon you deep and loud. 
And ye heard the thunder hurtle 

From the silence of the cloud — 
Funeral-torches at your gateway 

Threw a dreadful light within ; 
All things changed ! you rose up 
straightway 

And saluted Death and Sin. 
Since, — your outward man has rallied 

And your eye and voice grown 
bold— 
Yet the Sphinx of Life stands paUid, 

With her saddest secret told. 
Happy pL\ces have grown holy : 

If ye went where once ye went. 
Only tears would fall down slowly. 

As at solemn sacrament : 
Merry books, once read for pastime. 

If ye dared to read again. 
Only memories of the last time 

Would swim darkly up the brain. 
Household names, which used to 
flutter 

Through your laughter unawares, — 



THE FOURFOLD ASPECT. 



SiS' 



God's Divinest ye could utter 

With less trembling in your prayers ! 
Ye have dropt adown your head, and it 
seems as if ye tread 

On your own hearts in the path 

Ye are called to in His wrath,' — 

And your prayers go up in wail ! 

— ' Dost Thou see, then, all our loss, 

O Thou agonized on cross ? 

Art Thou reading all its tale ? 
So, mournfully ye think upon the Dead 



Pray, pray, thoic who also weepest. 

And the drops will slacken so ; 
Weep, weep : — and the watch thou 
keepest. 

With a quicker count will go. 
Think : — the shadow on the dial 

For the nature most undone, 
Marks the passing of the trial. 

Proves the presence of the sun : 
Look, look up, in starry passion, 

To the throne above the spheres, — 



Learn : the spirit's gravitation 

Still must differ from the tear's. 
Hope : with all the strength thou 
usest 

In embracing thy despair : 
Love : the earthly love thou losest 

Shall return to thee more fair. 
Work : make clear the forest-tangles 

Of the wildest stranger-land : 
Trust : the blessed deathly angels 

Whisper, ' Sabbath hours at hand !' 
By the heart's wound when most gory 

By the longest agony. 
Smile ! — Behold, in sudden glory 

The Transfigured smiles on thee ) 
And ye lifted up your head, and it 
seemed as if He said, 
' My Beloved, is it so? 
Have ye tasted of my wo ? 
Of my heaven ye shall not fall ! ' — 
He stands brightly where the shade is, 
With the keys of Death and Hades, 
And there ends the mournful tale : — 
So hopefully ye think upon the Dead. 




